Life After Breakdown
by PsychoDirector
Summary: Within every person, there is at least a small potential for pure, unbridled evil. Scientifically, it is possible to take that shred, harness it, and make it take over. Jack Bedlar sought to use this. He succeeded. This is how it happened.
1. The Madness Begins

_-EXPLOSIONS- IT BEGINS NOW. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, for the first time ever..._

**_Life After Breakdown - A Psychonauts Fanfic_**

_Chapter One - A Cat Named Taco_

Vince Kustav wasn't quite sure what to make of things when the bell rang that day. The master of the house, Jack Bedlar, hadn't mentioned anything about expected guests. And, with answering the door being one of Vince's many small jobs around the house (being the main butler), Master Bedlar found him knowing who would be arriving and when to be a very important thing. It should also be noted that, due to Master Bedlar being consumed with private duties required of him in the basement floors, he had surely no reason to call upon anyone to visit. There were no special dinners to be had, no parties to be arranged, and surely none of the businessmen in sharp suits to be had that day, which led to the identity of the person at the door to be in much confusion. Still, the bell had rung quite clearly throughout Windy Glen Estates, so Vince had no choice but to answer it.

It was a shame, really, he had to note as he traipsed down the elegant front staircase. He had just been about to settle down with a glass of sherry and a copy of _Wuthering Heights, _after a long day of degrading secretary-like arrangements. Having to be called upon simply moments after he had attempted to relax was just plain rude, really. He silently hoped that whoever had stopped by would not due so for long. He was a busy man, after all. One could simply not be made to arrange meetings on a dime, even if it was what kept, for lack of a better term, bread on his table.

As the bell chimed for the third time, he finally made his way to the polished oak front door. The gold-rimmed peephole shone expectantly in the light, its glass wiped clean and ready. Master Bedlar, for all of his other well traits, was not a very honest man, and Vince had found many times where the peephole had been put to good use. He could name at least one time where his life had been spared by the small ring of glass, wherein Jack had found a new way to infuriate crime, drug, mafia, and black market lords in turn. It was fortunate that Jack had the money to back up his quick tongue, and Vince no longer found the machine-gun garden gnomes strange. He just offered up another hope, and that was that the gnomes wouldn't have to be put to use. Not only for his own safety, but because many of the gardeners had threatened to retire if they found any more blood on the delicately trimmed lawn. And hiring new workers was quite a pain, especially as many of them required mind sweeps on a regular basis—for the greater good, of course.

As it turned out, luck was on Vince's side, as the guest was neither the dinner-party nor the violent type, as far as he could see. In fact, he looked to be just a mild annoyance potential through the tiny window. Vince opened the door for a better look, still keeping it partially locked on a small, silver chain.

The person standing at the doorstep was a young boy, looking off-putting and out of place in the pristine yard. He had a rather displeasingly sullied appearance about him, when one was to compare him to the perfectly green, neatly-trimmed hedges or the marble-topped front steps (which Vince noticed, with an obvious, sophisticated huff, he had left dirty footprints all across). This was not to say that the child was filthy, or even noticeably unclean, aside from dust patches on the knees of his deep purple jeans and a few loose threads on his matching purple jacket. No, if anything, he was incredibly normal. That was, provided Vince chose to ignore the goggles and helmet he was wearing, and the fact that he was on the verge of tears.

"Oh," Vince remarked, his relief at not having to deal with crime lords crudely spackled over by his tone of obvious superiority over the sad boy in his voice. A pause ensued, during which the little boy sniffled and rubbed his eye with a gloved fist. Vince, at this, closed the door again, unhooked the chain, then opened it again before continuing. "What do you want? …We're not interested in your charity dealings, if that's what you're after."

It seemed that was not the case, as the boy shook his head slightly, his large, green eyes cast downwards. Another pause came and went, during which neither of the two males spoke. Vince was getting aggravated at the lack of direction the conversation was taking, in all honesty. Normally he would have been able to keep calm and collected during such a time, as was his job. Today, though, had been a particularly trying day on his behalf, and he was, frankly, in no mood to play charades all night out on the doorstep.

"Out with it, then." He summed up all of the patience he could muster to keep from yelling the command, like a man barking out orders to a disobedient hound. It was no secret that he was in a foul mood, which didn't seem to do much but simmer over time. It was fortunate that the child took that time to answer, in a congested, miserable voice.

"M-my cat ran away a little while ago, and I didn't want it to go because it's my favorite one with the brown stripes and funny face, so I chased after it and I kept up with it for a really long time 'cause it's not that fast 'cause it hurt its paw just right here—" he pointed feebly to the back of his left hand, sniveling, "—and I'm kinda' fast 'cause I run a lot in school. But then it ran off down the street and I tried to chase it but it went into some bushes so I couldn't find it anymore but I looked around some more 'cause its name is Taco and it's the absolute awesomest cat that I've ever had, ever! But I couldn't find it so I got tired and I wanted to go home but I can't remember where it is because I got lost! And I want to go home and see Mama and Daddy again real bad!" He burst into fresh, traumatized wails at this, in the middle of which Vince struggled to process his grammatically suicidal paragraph. It was a full minute, at best, before Vince finally managed to get the basic story in his mind: kid loses cat, kid goes after cat, kid gets lost.

Now Vince faced a quandary. He could help the lost little boy find his way back—or at the very least allow him a phone call or a glance at a proper map—but that would surely annoy Jack Bedlar most dearly. He was far more… shall we say, 'possessive'… than Vince, and would loathe the very idea of a strange child running amok through his tidy living space. And this, in turn, could have consequences most dire for both Vince and the boy.

On the other hand, it seemed morally wrong to turn him away. The sun was setting across the trim lawn, and soon night would fall. It was a known fact that Windy Glen Estates were cut into one of the shadiest suburbs in the northern area, so as to make it much easier for Jack to contact the black market, and for him to no less than lord over his treasure to the other, poorer people (Vince also had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the plentiful whores around, though he would never say it to his face). It would be nothing short of homicide to let the child wander around alone, confused and frightened. Vince had seen more than his share of drunks, prostitutes, money-hungry thugs, street gangs, drug abusers, and child molesters along the darker allies of the Hell-spawned suburb. He dared not stop his car on the way to his job each morning, for the quite logical assumption that a rowdy group would steal whatever was not bolted down well enough. He had seen them flood the streets a few times before, like flies to a fresh corpse.

"I have my Daddy's phone number, if it helps a little…" the boy added, in a quiet voice. Vince glanced down at him, but this time it was with a look of uncertainty, not of vanity. An uncomfortable silence once again took over, before the boy spoke up again, shyly. "C-can I please use your phone or something, mister?" Oh, _damn_. He was using the infamous pouting face, or 'puppy-dog eyes'. Vince reminded himself that it was most likely subconscious—the child had not yet learned how to manipulate people, he was certain—or just out of an incredibly cute variety of sadness. The kind of cuteness that advertisers used to convince people to adopt orphans, or support foreign countries and their use of tampons. The kind that Jack abhorred, but always reminded Vince strangely of his youth.

"Alright," he confided, more out of desperation to rid himself of the pouting look than anything else. "You can use the telephone. Just follow me inside, and for God's sake, wipe off your shoes and keep your voice down!" he walked inside, feeling oddly like a prisoner of war being marched off to slavery. The little boy followed behind him, his face positively glowing with hope and love and joy, _et cetera_.

"Works every time," he snickered. Vince slowed in his steady walking pace.

"Pardon?"

"Huh? I didn't say anything." Vince paused for a few seconds more, then shrugged it off and continued walking. Now he was hearing things. Today was a most excellent day, indeed.

"Can I use your bathroom?" It had been almost a minute since they had first stepped inside, and Vince found himself stopping again at the new, unorthodox question.

"Excuse me?" he asked, part of his mind rejecting the question on base instinct. They were there to allot one phone call, and that was all. There was simply no reason for petty side trips… except for one. The boy smiled sheepishly.

"Please? I can't hold it." Vince's inner mind was repulsed at the bluntness and crudeness of children 'these days', but he forced himself to be patient. A quick break away wasn't nearly as bad as the idea of… well, it wasn't that bad of an idea, all said and done. Vince sighed, cursing the fate of timing and luck and the digestive system.

"Sure, sure. Turn the corner up here, and it's the third door on the left. Just be quick about it!" The boy nodded quite frantically, then took off at a run down the hall. Vince hissed at him to slow down, lest he fail to turn the corner and ram straight into the bust of Grigori Rasputin on display. The boy did, by the smallest amount, and skidded around the corner, narrowly missing the statue. Vince sighed again, wondering to himself if he was ever that reckless and energetic when he was young. He remembered his hometown fondly—Vienna. The water canals were truly a sight to see, especially during the sunset. There was one just outside of his apartment window, where the sun would reflect off it just right… Sinking to the ground slowly, he quickly became lost in his own world, the potential phone call that would never happen forgotten.

"This is Eagle with a Sniper Rifle, W.R. branch. The snake is in the bird's nest, copy? The _snake _is in the—dammit, Mr. Cruller, it's me. Raz. I'm in the guy's house. Is that simple enough for you? I'm just trying to make it sound cooler… Yeah, yeah, I know… I thought it was a cool name… Alright, I'm sorry I said a swear word over the communicators… Janitor duty? No way! I could still just make that phone call and get out of here without Truman, you know… What's that about tater tots? I like tater tots… My lungs, heart, and liver? That sounds drastic… All right, yeah, okay… Sorry, I'll do my job… I'm out… Later." With an eye roll and a muttered, unpleasant phrase, Raz pressed a button on the nifty black communicator watch he had been given before his mission, and it shut off. It was a shame, really. The whole mission just _bled _James Bond, so why couldn't he act it up a little? He was still feeling a little Broadway-ish from his starring role as 'Lost Kid with a Missing Cat', anyway.

The mission he had was simple enough: Truman Zanotto had been kidnapped by infamous enterprise owner and black market dealer, Jack Bedlar, in a reckless attempt to gain power over the psychic 'market'. Sasha figured that Jack had been wise enough to prepare for a Psychonaut invasion (he _did _have machine-gun gnomes, after all), so the 'Whispering Rock Branch' had been sent in for an espionage rescue mission. It was better than risking something along the lines of a psychic shootout, and wasting lives uselessly.

The plan, in turn, was also simple. Raz would sneak inside to mansion using a quick sob story. (he had offered to make it up himself, but the entire rest of the branch had agreed that they needed someone with a little less… imagination. After Raz got to the part with the telekinetic orca whales with wings, Sasha quickly took over the story planning, to his protest. Who cared about stray cats, anyway?) Then, after being let in, Sasha would mentally disable any butlers or guards in range by focusing their minds entirely on past memories (much to Raz and Lili's amazement and awe). Then Raz would sneak into the basement through the air vents, disable the guards, free Zanotto, then work together to take down Jack. Awesome.

With an excited smirk, Raz twisted a knob on the side of his communicator. It was the only trinket given to him by Ford, as the bacon had started to mold and now repelled the old man instead of summoning him, and as he wasn't telepathic and couldn't yet exchange thoughts. Perhaps it was better that way, in retrospect.

"Agent Aquato? Ah. I trust everything's going to plan?" Raz snickered merrily under his breath. Ever since his first day as an official agent, Sasha had been referring to him as 'Agent Aquato' instead of just 'Razputin'. It felt _so_ good to be treated as an equal. Well, almost equal. As Sasha frequently pointed out, he still had a lot to learn.

"Yeah. I haven't checked on the butler guy yet, but he's been quiet for a while. I'm going to go through the air vents now, alright?" On the other side of the line, Sasha was silent. Then he spoke, and Raz was surprised to hear just a little, tiny hint of concern in his tone.

"…Be careful. Something about this doesn't seem right. Why is there so little for protection? If Jack was serious about the hostage situation, I doubt he would have let any strangers inside his home at all costs. And why did he kidnap Truman in the first place? It doesn't add up." Raz processed this, slightly stunned.

"Wait. You mean you _expected _me to fail? Why not just go straight to Plan B, then?" Sasha sighed.

"Because I wanted to confirm my suspicions. As I had feared, they were right. Still, we've gone too far to back out now. Continue with the mission. I'll keep guard." Raz saluted, then realized that he couldn't be seen over the watch.

"Roger walnut, captain! This is Eagle with a Sniper Rifle, signing off!"

"Eagle with a…? Razputin, what are you—" Raz cut the connection. Sliding his jacket sleeve back over the sleek black device, he gazed up at the air vent. It was silver, its grate cut in a system of eye-shapes, rather than diamonds, for decoration. It was screwed in place on each corner, and a gold (colored?) border lined it, making it stand out slightly from the cloudy blue walls. The light from the room made a shadow of the grate cast inside of it, the eye-shapes morphed up into a series of tall ovals against the tin plating. Its ability to hold eighty-two pounds of human was questionable, at best. Still, it was the only way to reach Truman.

"I'm coming, Grand Head," Raz muttered in a determined voice. He had faced worse than this. Crawling through vents should be no problem at all.

"No, I've heard it was the real deal. The movie's got Dennis Steinbeck and Kathy Berlin in it and everything. It's supposed to be a hit."

"Dennis Steinbeck? Who's he playing?"

"The main character, Eddie Riggs. It's not like him, but he apparently looks good in black."

"You're _shitting _me. A guy like him wouldn't sell out for metal."

"I figured that, too, but I heard it's something with family. Like his daughter or something asked him to do it. And Kathy's apparently got this ex-husband or someone who used to be in a metal band that didn't take off too well, so she's in it for the nostalgia."

"You think she and Dennis will go anywhere?"

"Doubt it. She's Frenched more guys than I can keep up with. And the movie's not exactly romantic enough for her to get turned on, especially when everything reminds her of her uncle."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Plus, she's gotta' at least _try _to be loyal to her current husband."

"At least until the press moves on to some other celeb."

"That shouldn't be long." The two guards, decked out in matching dark blue sweaters and slacks, chuckled together. They were sitting in a cement basement room, rifles held loosely at their sides. They each had been assigned to guard over the entrance to a room; a large, wooden monstrosity with a cold, metal handle. Neither had any clue what was beyond the door, or why it needed to be guarded. However, the job paid remarkably well, especially considering that all the two had to do over the past two days was stand near it and chat.

Most people had been against the job, due to its enigmatic nature, except the pair. They had agreed to the position almost instantly, knowing full well that the mansion was well guarded on the outside. Even if it was possible to breech on the outside (which it probably wasn't, even for Girl Scouts), well, that's what the rifles were for.

Still, if whatever was inside the room should break out, the two just concluded that they were royally screwed and left it at that. The room had been quiet the past two days, so the odds were whatever was in it wasn't dangerous. Probably just a bit of Castleton's fortune, but the risk behind opening the door and the salary were both great enough to keep the duo from opening the door.

"Hey, do you think we'll ever use these?" one guard asked the other, gesturing to his rifle. It was just an off-hand statement, not really one he expected a solid answer to. However, he got one, as the vent on the ceiling suddenly gave a loud bang and fell to the ground, a person with it.


	2. Kill Factor

**_(Ah. It's good to be back. Good to be ME. 8D For those of you who aren't religious DeviantART watchers and are curious as to whether or not Columbus was wrong and I did, in fact, fall off the edge of the planet... no. He was right. I was just on vacation in Idaho which, while fun, was severely lacking in Internet resources. The good news is that I brought my laptop with me, though, so I spent the time I normally surf with to contribute to fueling the fangirl masses. So, at last, I bring you all this. Enjoy.)_**

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**_Life After Breakdown_**

_Chapter 2 - _

"_Shit_, dude!" was the first thing Raz heard as he fell into the basement floor, silently cursing the cheap metal of air vents these days and loudly yelling nothing in particular (he was surprised). Well, were he to look on the bright side, one glance at those guards proved that he must be in the right room. The metal door standing erect behind them further emphasized that, and the fact that their rifles' laser targeting was on his head and heart, respectively, by the time he hit the floor brought it home.

He yelped again as the crap metal crumpled like a candy wrapper against the cement floor, its now many sharp edges biting into sensitive elbows and knees. The sharp, hard edges bit into his skin, even slicing deep cuts into it at some points. His first instinct hit him, commanding him to get off _now_ before that metal he was kneeling on hit bone. He did, pretending not to notice the shocked exclamations of the guards or the twin laser sights pinpointed on his heart and forehead. His skin pulled against him at some points, embracing the metal digging painfully inside him, but it all eventually released with a sickening _rip_ that he wasn't entirely sure was his imagination.

"Hey, you! Put your hands up!" One of the guards (who Raz quickly and originally nicknamed Guard A) commanded, his laser sight trembling just a little against Raz's sweater as he took a step forward. Raz, meanwhile, just eyed one of his knees, which had gotten a twisted shard of metal somehow screwed into it and had torn itself up when he jerked it free (the source of the _rip_?). It was bleeding severely, and Raz wondered to himself if he could patch it with telekinesis.

"He said hands _up_!" Guard B yelled, stepping closer as well. "Or do you want us to shoot?" Raz, at this, sighed and stood up slowly, wincing as his knee throbbed at the movement. He then slowly brought his arms up to either side, palms out, looking only at the ground. Then, with his thoughts resting solely on the pair of weapons, he brought his hands out a little further to the sides, shifted his gaze to the left, bent his fingers… and used pyrokinesis.

Suddenly, to the two guards' surprise, their guns melted in their hands, and they were quick to drop the pieces of super-hot metal. The useless weapons fell to the floor with a wet _clink_, dissolving into harmless puddles. Raz chuckled, and the guards gaped. Finally, after about one second of pointless staring, Guard A straightened up.

"He's one of the Psychonauts! _Get him_!" he proclaimed, jumping up and attempting to tackle Raz clumsily, following his own order. Raz just smiled at this, easily side-stepping the move. Then, while Guard A was still on the ground, he shot a psiblast at Guard B, who was hit in mid-leap and crumpled. That done, Raz turned around gracefully and shot Guard A just as he was beginning to get up, forcing him back down and out.

It was over in a few seconds, and Raz felt a surge of disappointment. Sasha was right: this seemed almost _too _easy. He considered the possibility of a trap for a moment, then quickly shrugged it off. There wasn't much he could do if it was a trap, aside from fall for it. With that rather depressing thought in mind, he relieved Guard A of his key ring, slid it into the large door's lock (_The Grand Head's just beyond that door_, he thought with glee), then reached out and pushed.

It didn't budge.

Confused and now a little worried, Raz tried again, a little harder. The door shifted a little, moaning as it let loose a tiny sprinkle of dust, but otherwise remained still. This upset the Youngest Psychonaut Ever a good deal, who took to muttering self-depreciative remarks about his skinny limbs even as he tried again, this time slamming his shoulder blades against the grain while holding the handle open with TK. Then, with an audible groan, he shoved against the door with all his strength, heaving against it, his shoes tight against the cement. Slowly, leisurely, the door began to move, dropping dust by the sheet onto poor Raz's head as he strained.

"Ugh… come _on_…" Raz groaned, forcing the door forward and into the dark, inch by inch. It seemed to take forever and three thousand gallons of choking dust, but finally he managed to make a space just big enough for him to squeeze through. He slipped through it happily, throwing on invisibility as he did so… just in case.

It was dark in this room, he noticed. Dark and cold, and it smelled like old dirt. He found himself shivering as he walked into the empty space, wishing for light but not daring to make one. Instead, he settled for wrapping arms that would be invisible to him even without his power—which he had turned off again as soon as he had seen how pitch it was in here—around himself and clamping his teeth down so they wouldn't chatter.

He quickly noticed that the reason for the dust on the door and in the air now was just because of the sandy dirt walls of this place (cave, more accurately), and not because of time passing. He could open and shut that door a million times and he'd still get rained on. As it was, he meandered slowly though this rather scary place, rubbing his upper arms, shivering in a way that was only half because of cold, and struggling not to cough, though his lungs felt all dusty.

Worst of all, though, were the sounds. There were sounds of scuttling, of squeaking, of distant groaning, of rain-like patters, of metallic creaks, of monsters lying in wait, breathing heavily and licking their chops at the thought of a delicious little Psychonaut to munch on… _Okay, okay, stop that RIGHT NOW_, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and balling his hands into fists. _There's no such thing as monsters, you baby_. He bullied himself back into control, forcing his mind to stop coming up with such stupid ideas. Okay, maybe there weren't monsters, really, but what about villains? What if there was a whole group of bad guys standing just a few feet away from him, holding up guns and just _waiting_ for the signal to pepper him into oblivion? What if there was someone standing _right behind him_, chloroform and rag in hand, smirking in the dark as he stalked his unaware prey…? It was so dark that he'd never see them, until they'd already made off with his internal organs. Raz shivered and continued on, a bit more nervously.

He made it about five more steps before he decided he'd had enough. With an angry jerk, he leapt up and onto a warmly-glowing levitation ball, his feet hitting what felt like solid ground just above the orb. The jagged walls were thrust into sight, and a few bats squeaked loudly and took off yards above Raz's head. He ignored them, instead choosing to dart his eyes around in search of an ambush, quickly adjusting to the light. There was no one there, of course, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Just his over-active imagination, then.

However, there was one thing embedded in the walls that attracted his attention, and he peered up at it eagerly. It was an old-fashioned torch, its wooden shaft loosely shoved into a jutting 'u' of rock. Happily, Raz walked towards it (the best way to describe levitating would be like being on roller skates as you move, not at all like actually trying to balance on a ball), then tugged it free. He dismissed his ball and hit the ground as he focused on the black end of the torch, barely noticing the sensation of falling a foot or so as his levi-ball left. He didn't even mind the loss of the light, as soon enough the torch burst into flames, casting the cave into a much better light than his ball had provided.

"Watch out, Jack," Raz whispered happily to the lit torch, his fear vanished, "Indiana Raz is coming." He froze at this, looking around the cave as if there was an audience. "…Man, that sounded cheesy. Oh, well." He hummed to himself as he continued trotting down the rocky path, the light surrounding him like a protective orb.

The path seemed to wind on forever. Raz wandered down it for what felt, to him, like hours, the torch burning dutifully in his now-rather-warm hand. Though his fear of bad guys was now extinguished, it was replaced by a drenching boredom and tiredness. _Indiana Jones never had to worry about stuff like this…_

Eventually, though, Raz soon saw something in the distance, something too straight to be rock. He realized, with surprise and excitement, that it was a cell. And in that cell? Doubtlessly, Truman Zanotto—his girlfriend's dad and his boss. The guy who would, with any luck, be amazingly in awe of him being able to gallantly rescue him shortly after saving his daughter and her summer camp, enough to put him in the kind of good light he so needed to get by as a child prodigy within the big, bad Psychonauts.

"Mr. Zanotto!" Raz proclaimed loudly, remembering his manners only at the last second as he plowed towards the end, his torchlight waving wildly at his heels. He hit the end, sliding on said heels gracefully to avoid making hard contact with the bars of the cell. That done, he peered inside giddily, waiting impatiently for his light to stop bouncing about crazily as a result of his sprint. It did, and he got his first good look at Truman Zanotto.

Despite what his experience, name, and situation would imply, he was actually a rather lean man (as opposed to the stereotypical fat and devious millionaire), wearing what must have been a nice suit once and still had hints of it. His hair was a sunny yellow, grown a bit longer than average due to his stay. He also had a nice beard; small (the peach fuzz now coating his face aside) and cut in a classic 'C' with a bit of goatee in the middle. His eyes were a cloudy blue, not at all like Lili's, and were ringed with dark bags that took away from his total sophisticate appearance.

Raz took in these features, noting how different he looked from Lili (Raz had been expecting to see an older, hairier version of his girlfriend), then beamed at him.

"Truman Zanotto, Grand Head of the Psychonauts," he announced, just a bunny-hop away from adding 'Your Majesty', "I finally found you." He reached into his pocket, fishing happily for the key, when Truman spoke up. His voice was drier, but still as posh as most rich peoples' tended to be.

"Who… are you?" he asked, sounding in disbelief. Raz had been expecting this—after all, it wasn't every day that the Grand Head of the Psychonauts was saved by a ten-year-old. (Oh, how he chuckled at the thought.) However, even with seeing this coming, he still hadn't been able to formulate a good answer to this response. As it was, he continued sifting through his pockets (which one had he left that key in, again…?), refusing to make eye contact with the man he was trying to impress. He knew ignoring him wouldn't make for a good first impression, though, so he answered as best as he could.

"My name's Razputin Aquato—but most people call me Raz—and I—"

"Listen," Truman interrupted suddenly. Raz, surprised, did what he was told. He even went so far as to tear his eyes away from his pockets to meet Truman's eye. He was staring back at Raz, looking desperate… even a little scary. Raz felt a tiny shiver hit his stomach, for reasons he couldn't explain, and shoved it down quickly. This was Truman Zanotto, after all. It wouldn't do good to be afraid of him.

"Yeah?" Raz asked, wondering what Mr. Zanotto had to say that was important enough to delay his freedom. Truman didn't respond right away; instead, he looked around, as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows at any moment. Raz noted how odd it was that they shared the same phobia, but kept his peace. This place was pretty scary, after all. Even now, he couldn't quite get rid of the feeling that someone was standing behind him with a burlap bag (_More like a flour sack, amirite? xD_), stretching out his hands to shove him in and carry him off to Pain and Suffering Land like a burglar. He shuddered again, trying to forget the feeling. Zanotto spoke.

"Look, I don't know how you got in here, Razputin, but this place isn't safe. There are a lot of cruel people in here who would hurt you very badly if they saw you wandering around, worse if they saw you helping me." Raz bit down a groan. He knew where this speech was going—he'd seen more than his fair share of them during the short time he'd been 'wandering around' Psychonauts HQ. That last thing he wanted this guy to think of him as was a pathetic little kid. Sure, he was a kid. Sure, he was incredibly, amazingly, impossibly little for his age. And sure, there were at least two people back at Whispering Rock (named Bobby and Benny) who would call him pathetic. But… but he was also a damn good agent, firstly.

Truman was going on, and it went something like this: "…But I need you to do me a big, big favor, okay, please? I need you to get out of here and get to the nearest phone. Then, I want you to call Sasha Nein—S-a-s-h-a N-e-i-n—look up his name in the phone book—and tell him that 'Jack Bedlar has Truman Zanotto'. He'll know what you mean. Do you think you could do that for me?" Raz just gave him a condescending look, with eyes half-shut and mouth drawn up into a sarcastic pout.

"I doubt calling him would due me much good, Mr. Zanotto. He's not home; he's just outside these walls, patrolling the quarters for any suspicious signs." Truman's jaw, quite literally, dropped. He stared blankly at the smug Raz, who slid a hand coolly into the last pocket he had to check (his right inner jacket pocket). Sure enough, the key was there, hard and jagged compared to the soft fluff of the inner pocket.

"Y-you… how did you know…?" Truman, the silly man that he was, seemed unable to form a full-on sentence. Raz just smirked, sliding the key into the lock with an air of professionalism. The lock clicked loudly in the silence, and the cell became just an ugly room.

"Other people call me Agent Aquato. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." Like a servant, he grabbed one of the bars and pulled, forcing open the door for the struck-dumb Grand Head. He didn't move from the bench he was sitting on, however, and Raz waited impatiently for their mediocre escape. He waited about three seconds before, to his surprise, his ever-curious brain picked up a long thought Truman seemed too stunned to block.

_That's an agent!? That small CHILD!? Jesus, what is he, eight? Nine? Not only is that kindergartner an agent, God forbid, but HE'S the poor sap they send after me? Thanks a lot, you self-centered bastards. Send someone barely out of diapers in to bust me out of this joint, while one of the greatest agents of all time does guard duty. Just another sign that the APLD is made up of nothing but a bunch of retarded chimps. Oh, well. Might as well act happy so the kid doesn't throw a tantrum. I hate to say it, but he did alright to get the key. And if I just tell him to tag along behind me and don't touch anything, I should be able to get to Nein just fine. He can even be a Carrier, if he's good enough to get in here by something other than luck. Still, what happened to Vodello that they send Nein on baby-sitting duty? I was hoping they'd both come—or at least Westfield and James. Or Oleander and Thorny. Or Taylor and Karasaki, for crying out loud. Anything better than Junior here. _By this time he was already out the door, and Raz was watching him with a shocked expression.

_Child? Kindergartner? DIAPERS!? _He thought to himself, his anger growing. _I'm older—slightly—than your own daughter, you idiot! I don't need you thinking of me as—as a mindless baby! What is your PROBLEM!? J-just… MAN! You're such a jerk! And what the hell's a Carrier, anyway? I swear, if that's the Grand Head term for a pack mule, you're so going DOWN._ He shot daggers at Truman's back, his balled fists trembling. Truman didn't notice his rage; he noticed he wasn't following.

"Hurry up now, Razputin," he ordered, not even turning his head. Raz bit back an enraged insult with difficulty, instead choosing to jog up to the Grand Head. Even though he now thoroughly despised the man he had, not a minute ago, respected, he still needed to get out.

"Mr. Zanotto…" Raz began, meaning to ask him about the 'Carrier' thing. He had a bad feeling that it'd be something humiliating ("You get to carry my _bag_, aren't you special??"), but the curiosity was killing him. Truman turned to him at this, and he was smiling. However, it wasn't a kind smile, but instead a degrading one.

"Oh, that's right. How rude of me." He got down on one knee suddenly, bringing himself nearly level to Raz. Oddly, he gave off the impression of what was either a knight being courted or a father wanting to play ball, but somehow less… innocent… than those two. "Razputin, thank you for going out of your way to help me. I really needed it, and I guess now I'm in your debt. So how about, after this is over, I call up my limo and take you out for ice cream! Doesn't that sound like fun?"

…_And behind Door #2, you get… ICE CREAM! Woo, you lucky dog, you! _Raz thought. It didn't sound like 'fun' to Raz, not at all. For a second he was frozen in surprise, wondering what he was _possibly _thinking. _I save his freaking life, and all I get is a few scoops of chocolate swirl!? Oh, no. This is too much. I'm going to tell him exactly where he can put that ice cream, nevermind that he's my boss and my girlfriend's dad. Doesn't that sound like fun?_

"Y-yeah. That sounds… great," Raz muttered instead, his milk-related threats dying as he spoke the words. "Thanks, Mr. Zanotto." Truman just smiled wider, turning back to the exit. Once again, Raz caught a sliver of embarrassing thought from the Grand Head.

_Excellent. This actually could work better than if they had sent a professional. This kid's completely clueless—hah! He'll make the perfect Carrier._ There it was; that word again. Raz was beginning to have an odd feeling in his stomach, sort of like he'd swallowed a large rock. He was also beginning to think that a 'Carrier' was something other than a pack mule. He remembered, suddenly, that he had heard the word somewhere else before, but he couldn't remember where. Some movie, he guessed. But which one? For whatever reason, he believed it was a horror zombie flick Atlas (his older brother) had let him watch a week or so back, without Dad's permission. It had given him fierce nightmares, but he'd never told anyone that he'd watched it. What was it called again? _Kill Factor_? He couldn't remember.

…But that was just plain silly, though, wasn't it? Zombies weren't real, and Truman Zanotto didn't have any need or desire to make any.

…Right?

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

_To Be Continued..._


	3. Gadgets

**_Hello. I'm just here to provide you with a friendly reminder that this chapter will, in fact, contain_**

**_VIOLENCE AND ACTION AND MONOLOGUES AND A STARTLING REVELATION!_**

**_That is all. You may now continue with your lives. Thank you for your time. (And yes, this story does contain remarkably short Author's Notes--considering me--and over-use of the word 'gadget'. It's my favorite word, okay? Gadgetgadgetgadgetgadgetgadget... 8D...)_**

--

The sun had never seemed quite so bright as when Raz and Truman burst past a stunned butler, through a pair of mahogany doors, and straight into its warm embrace. It beat down warm beams of light onto the pair, which was infinitely refreshing after the cold dark of the basement. Raz couldn't help himself; he laughed as he caught sight of the emerald grass and elfin gnomes, the crimson roses and sunny geraniums, the cobblestone path and blooming pink apple trees. He could no longer hold his grudge to the underestimating Truman Zanotto—Truman was free, no one was hurt, Sasha was waiting, Bedlar was about to come home to a _nasty_ surprise, and life was good.

"Well, he may be a kidnapping, selfish weirdo, but Jack's an alright gardener," Raz noted, breathing in a wild and flowery perfume and gazing at the bright and beautiful courtyard. It was true, too; not a weed poked through the rocky flowerbeds, not a chip marred the shiny, porcelain bodies of the gnomes, and the colorful fauna were splashed about with an artistic air. He tried to imagine Sasha—uptight, monochrome Sasha—waiting in this rainbow patch and laughed again.

"Yes, it is something, isn't it?" Truman smiled warmly, his inner kindness stirred up, not by the skills, admiration, and respect of a ten-year-old, but by the enemy's lawn care. Surprisingly, Raz wasn't offended by this. Actually, he was just glad that, for once, they had something in common. Maybe, just maybe, this was one step closer to respect on both sides.

"This must have taken years to make," Raz goaded cautiously, attempting to form a casual conversation that didn't involve ice cream and diapers. Meanwhile, working on time given from Sasha's memory trick, Truman bent down to examine a tall, bright sunflower in a field of them. His feet were planted firmly against the grass, safe from accidentally stepping on one of the flowers.

"Three years, at least," Truman estimated. "Some of these flowers are worth thousands. Please, don't touch anything." At this, Raz raised an eyebrow.

"You talk like you own the place, Mr. Zanotto," he remarked. Truman jerked a little at this, his hands half-curling and his right arm instinctively shifting towards his pocket. Raz shut his mouth quickly, realizing that Truman had, in fact, been affected by his kidnapping by the actual owner. Even mentioning the house's owner had been a mistake, bringing the Grand Head's mind shooting back to the cell and whatever had happened between it and the day of Raz's initiation.

"I… I didn't mean…" Raz mumbled weakly, straining to bring them back to the feeling of slight bonding they'd had just a moment ago. He knew it was lost, though, and wasn't surprised when Truman refocused on the mission ahead.

"Come on. Agent Nein is waiting for us." And with that, Truman Zanotto walked off, around a patch of marigolds ringed with lilacs and down the path, and Raz, feeling dejected and disappointed in himself, followed silently behind.

--

It was about a minute later when Raz and Truman managed to weave their way through the garden, past the fence, and into the outside. Raz had already recovered from his disappointment, and was even smiling again. He reminded himself that Truman was a moron, and that chatting about flora and fauna wasn't likely to make him see him as anything other than a small child. However, the saving of the Grand Head's life without effort would probably put him in a good light with the other positions of power within the Psychonauts (the Administration of Psychic Labor and Distribution—APLD—Truman's family, Mentallix Enterprises, Mental Terrain Control, Paranormal Research Industry, _et cetera_). Even if Truman was a kid-hating idiot, the other powers should be enough to assure Raz a nice spot in their heads.

It was then, after having escaped (though that seemed like a bad word to use) from Windy Glen Estates, that Raz came to spot none other than Sasha Nein himself. The German agent hadn't caught sight of him, yet, instead choosing to stare at his watch impatiently.

"Sa—Agent Nein!" Raz proclaimed happily, his emerald eyes all shiny with eagerness. Sasha turned his head and—Raz assumed—looked at him, but it was impossible to tell with his sunglasses. However, even with his eyes hidden behind the cobalt lenses, Raz could still see that he was less than happy. In fact, he looked remarkably angry, even worried. Raz's smile vanished, to be replaced by a nervous frown, made worse by the words Sasha spoke next. He glared at Truman, whose face (and with it, expression) couldn't be seen from Raz's angle, then looked at Raz with a look that made him want to melt into the ground. It was confusion… and shame.

"Razputin," he began, his voice deep and slow, as if speaking to a dim-witted child, "what are you doing?" Raz blinked, feeling lost. Truman, however, laughed at this odd exchange, then suddenly wrapped an arm around Raz's shoulders, like they were best friends forever. This made Sasha's teeth come on edge and sweat bead on Raz's forehead, more from confusion than fear. Whatever was wrong, he knew it was focused on Truman Zanotto.

…Or was it really Truman? Raz realized, with a start, that he'd never seen Lili's father before this instance. He realized, suddenly, that he had no clue who, actually, had called him a Carrier and offered him ice cream, and he'd been leading to Sasha in return.

"Oh, Nein, don't be so hard on the boy," Truman chuckled, further confusing Raz and angering Sasha. "He's been so very helpful, after all. He played along with the plan meant for you, acted ever so polite, complimented my flower garden, and, best of all, pointed me straight to you, and all after just one tiny lie." Raz's eyes widened as he quickly learned the shocking truth. He stared up at the fake Grand Head, his mind whirling as he realized that the cell, the basement, the guards, possibly even the whole kidnapping ploy had all been a trap to lure some of the Psychonauts' best agents.

"You… you're…" Raz attempted to accuse the pseudo-Truman of his trap (far too late), but lacked the surety to form a full sentence. Truman-not-Truman, though, just gave him a demoralizing grin, not unlike the ones given to kindergartners holding up homemade arts and crafts.

"My name is Jack Bedlar, young Razputin, and I believe you have fallen into my trap." He then looked out towards Sasha, extending a far less demeaning but far more evil grin at him. Raz glared daggers at him, but was so far too shocked and abashed to attempt an attack.

"I must say, Nein, I'm pleased, if not very disappointed in your agency. To think, I was planning to merely wait until one of your agents came in to save Truman and found me in his place, then set loose my secret attack before they could process the fact that they'd been duped. I never _dreamed_ that the boy you brought in wouldn't even know what his own boss looked like!" Jack laughed heartily at this, and Raz felt shame edge its way into the emotional potluck that was his insides. He knew he should have studied up on this case, and had even been told by another agent to do so, but he'd never thought… this…

"_But_," Sasha suddenly and firmly interrupted, stepping forward and putting a hand to the side of his glasses. They shone in just the right way, giving Sasha an air of authority and further humbling the humiliated Razputin, "regardless of another agent's incompetence—" Raz blushed furiously "—you are still under arrest by the Psychonauts for kidnapping of a high power figure, assaulting an agent, the use and distribution of illegal substances, unlicensed possession of arms—" Jack waved his arms jokingly "—assisting suicide, assaulting a civilian, theft, arson… Shall I continue?"

"No need, no need," Jack sang, waving his hand and dismissing the criminal list as if it were nothing. "Though you did forget to add one thing…" Sasha raised an eyebrow. Raz, however, was untimely familiar with all forms of villainous banter, and as such realized the meaning behind Jack's words as soon as he spoke them. Raz knew he had to act fast. He took aim…

"What is it?" Sasha ordered. Jack's smile crept up along his face, like that of a Cheshire Cat.

"Successful murder of an agent, two counts," he boasted, just as Raz knew he would. He wouldn't have had Raz lead him to Sasha just for him to say 'tag, you're it', not with all the effort he'd put into pretending to be Truman and leaving his mansion open for the commoners to poke into. Of course, he was planning for them to be buried here, fertilizing hibiscuses for the rest of eternity. Well, not if Raz had anything to say about that!

Determined to redeem himself in Sasha's eyes, Raz fired a deadly precise Psiblast at the millionaire criminal, with full intentions of hitting his big head with all the force of a steel bat, sending him falling to the ground and into unconsciousness. He channeled all of his anger and embarrassment at being tricked into the shot, in a sort of ironic comeback. It shot off brilliantly, a crimson blast slicing through the air like a sword and shooting towards Jack with the speed of a bullet…

The shot reflected off Bedlar uselessly and panged into the fence with a _twang_, as if it had hit a mirror. While the fence hole smoldered black, Raz gave Jack an open-mouthed look of extreme surprise. Jack turned to him, then, and Raz caught a glimpse of something that glinted aquamarine in the light. A gadget? He didn't know, and Jack didn't look like he was going to help. Instead, he kept his smile but narrowed his eyes, becoming a far more menacing and… tall… figure than the one he had cut before Raz had attempted to shoot him.

"My turn." Quick as lightening, his hand darted into the pocket it had jerked towards when Raz had spoken in the garden ("You talk like you own the place"), yanking out something round, white with yellow tint, and translucent like gelatin. The solid wall of the baseball-sized orb rippled and shimmered like sun-colored water, and inside of it lay a smaller, pure yellow ball, like an egg yolk. If this was a gadget, it wasn't like any Raz had seen before. As such, he panicked a little with what happened next.

"Catch," Jack whistled, tossing the shiny ball in a lazy arc towards Raz. Acting on instinct, Raz did just that, but nevertheless let out a high-pitched yelp when he felt the cold wall hit his gloved palms. His mind jerked from one movie reference to another, fully expecting the orb to explode or start a timer or stick to everything or open up into a series of binding tentacles or absorb into his skin or something else very unpleasant and unhelpful. As it was…

"No! I don't want it!" Raz squeaked. His hands once again moved on instinct, pulling apart from each other and sending the shiny ball falling to the grass. Jack grinned wider, and Sasha, far more experienced in tools of destruction, let out a gasp.

"Raz, _no_!" he cried, but it was too late. The orb hit the ground, cushioning itself in a patch of jewel-like grass, and Raz's mind was proven right in the first count. It was a bomb. Did you expect anything less?

The good news was, though, that the bomb wasn't your usual explodey-type. As such, none of the gardeners had to follow through on their threat to retire, as the lawn wasn't splattered with the blood and otherwise vital organs of Jack, Raz, and Sasha. The bad news, however, was that it was an extremely compressed gas bomb, set to explode upon pressure contact (though juuuust shy of enough pressure to explode upon Raz's catch, to Jack's slight disappointment). That being said, the non-explodey bomb burst, sending a huge cloud of yellowish gas blooming into the air. Raz had just enough time to cry out, remembering a documentary he'd seen on another yellow, toxic gas (AKA mustard gas), and then he was consumed by a poison yellow cloud, along with Sasha and Jack.

Raz instantly set to coughing, his burning lungs struggling to find air. He fell forward and hit the ground hard on his knees, his eyes and throat following his lungs onto the 'burning' list. He felt tears fall down his cheeks in rapid succession, and dry, raspy air choke out from his mouth. He struggled to open his eyes and stare at his skin, remembering that mustard gas made blisters appear on it and lacerate his lungs, causing the latter to bleed until he choked to death on it. Horrible and agonizing, he prayed against this ending, but couldn't open his bawling eyes to check.

"HQ, come in! We need an emergency rescue helicopter, now! How soon can you get one here?" Raz heard Sasha yell from somewhere off to his right, his voice thick and congested as he struggled not to cough, himself. Raz then collapsed onto his stomach, coughing heavily into his hands. His lungs felt torn and tattered, his eyes were stinging, he couldn't breathe… and he knew it was all his fault. As if to accent this, he heard Sasha getting angry at HQ. "Five minutes is too late! I don't care if you have to send a pizza truck, _mein Gott_, just get over here!" It was then that another, much calmer voice interrupted Sasha's rant.

"So… who should I kill first…?" a familiar and terrifying voice hummed, its tone oddly muffled, as if he were speaking through thin glass. Raz heard footsteps near his head, which was pressed against the cool grass. They kept going past him, trailing off to the right, where Raz knew Sasha was. He felt a tremor of fear. "The big, bad, German Psychonaut, maybe? You've been a thorn in my side ever since I started in with you psychics. I'm a little upset that your Californian girlfriend isn't here, but that's only because the two of you make such a good team. Then this might have felt a bit more satisfying. Not to mention ironic. But I guess I'll have to settle for Junior." Raz just let out an odd, gasping, whooping noise at this, too tired and sore to cough any longer. He cursed himself again and again, trying to bully himself into getting up and fighting off Jack.

_You owe Sasha that much, Razzy-boy. You didn't bother to read the mission briefing, you confused Bedlar for Truman… idiot… you dropped that stupid gas bomb, and after all that, you can't even be bothered to get up and beat the bad guys! You're so pathetic. I'll bet you get fired for this. _He tried, but still couldn't do more than slight movements, let alone use a power. Sickening though it was, he was helpless. Meanwhile, Jack was continuing on, taking his time now that he knew Raz and Sasha weren't going anywhere.

"Or maybe I should just kill the little Carrier, eh? Just one quick headshot and _boom_. No more babysitting for Nein." There was a sound—a _creak_ and a few, minute _cracks_—and then Raz could feel Jack crouching down in front of him. He strained to open his eyes against the tear gas, just managing to glimpse a black blob in front of the clearing yellow. However, sight wouldn't earn him any prizes, especially as he felt icy fingers thread under his chin and lift up his head. Were he able to keep his eyes open, he'd be staring straight into the blue of Jack's own. He couldn't, though, and just lay there, as malleable and limp as a rag doll. He felt something feathery (hair) brush slightly against the side of his face, and managed to open his eyes just halfway in order to see Jack leaning over his shoulder. Instead of firing a shot of lead deep into Raz's brain, though, as he expected, the madman just chose to whisper a few words into his ear.

"But that would ruin everything, wouldn't it, Razputin?" Raz didn't know what he was talking about. And yet… he did. Or at least some part of him did, because he felt his mouth moving and forming words he wasn't thinking about, let alone in control of.

"Yes," he agreed, his voice flat and remarkably clear, and his half-open eyes staring straight ahead, at the black, as though hypnotized. "Yes it would." He couldn't see it, but he could tell—Jack was smiling.

"'Atta boy." And then Jack left, and Raz felt his head hit the ground again. He resumed trying to cough, his throat no longer as clear as it had had been. In a second, he was back to being teary-eyed and sore of throat. And, in a second, Jack was back to addressing both him and Sasha, who had been oddly silent.

That was when the miracle came.

"Now, children, I don't mean to cut this meeting short, but it's time to… uh…" At the word 'children', Raz had been able to barely make out a distant _whup-whup-whup_ rising up from the quiet suburbia. By the time he'd gotten to 'to', the sound had grown to a roar. In the time it took to count to five, the helicopter had arrived, sending up great gusts of wind with its entrance that served greatly to chase away the tear gas. Raz heard a heavy _thunk_ as the machine hit ground, the _whup_s now deafening in intensity. Still, even with them, Raz could still hear Jack let out a stream of swear words he knew and ones he quickly learned, in the kind of rapid succession that seemed very un-posh and be represented on TV as a long, loud _bleep_.

Raz forced his way to his knees as the gas started blowing away, rubbing his eyes to rid them of their burning state. He doubted, counting on the fact that his luck had turned in the nick of time, that this was an enemy copter, but instead the one Sasha had demanded. He felt a surge of admiration for the Psychonauts, reveling in the loving way they treated their agents. It was nice to know that, even with his failure, they had a back-up plan. And so _fast_! One second he and Sasha were at the mercy of Bedlar; the next, he was staring, awe-struck, at them. It was empowering. He was strong! He was tough! He was…

…Suddenly, Raz felt a thin but strong arm wrap around his midsection, lifting him up so that his hands and toes dangled less than an inch from the ground. He didn't have much of a choice—God knows he couldn't walk himself. The gas had made him feel dizzy and confused, and he believed the motion of getting up would likely cause him to puke buckets. He just had to hope that the arm belonged to Sasha and not Jack, and was just a further step in their victory plan, as opposed to what would be at best a damsel-in-distress moment (though Sasha being the cowboy and him being the damsel was just _weird_) and at worst a hostage situation with guns and gadgets.

Luck continued to serve Raz, though. He soon enough saw, through watery eyes, a series of psychic or otherwise psychic-tolerant paramedics storm out from the rescue chopper shortly after a few agents Raz didn't recognize hopped out. He waited for Sasha to be, for lack of a better word, serviced by the doctors and nurses, and to hopefully be fed enough antiseptic and Morphine to numb his mind to Raz's failure. What he got was Sasha using that stereotypical selflessness that had kept him in a high spot in both the minds of professionals and children alike. With a jerk just shy of angry, he thrust Raz towards a nurse, who was waiting with an oxygen tank and stretcher.

"Help him. I have a job to do," he ordered curtly. His tone also hinted at a hidden, negative emotion, though Raz wasn't quite sure why. His failure had been aggravating to them both, sure, but Raz suspected that there was something deeper to the German's frustration. Raz's failure had been… something. A symbol, perhaps? Or maybe a part of a much bigger plan he'd just blown with his incompetence?

_Agent Nein_, Raz thought. Even as he dully accepted the crystalline oxygen mask and regained his breath, his eyes were locked on the blurry figure of Sasha Nein taking chase after Jack. _What are you hiding?_

--

_To Be Continued..._


	4. Pok Pok Pok Pok

**_Hey, all! Welcome back to another chapter! It is nice to see you! Please, help yourself to some complimentary cookies and milk while my associates relieve you of your wallets and valuables. Settle down, relax, read, and don't forget to leave a review! It's like a check-out card. Without it THERE IS NO ESCAPE._**

**_Have a nice day!_**

**_Oh and to I Ain't That Sane... -Euthanizes you- There. Feel better yet?_**

**_To everyone else, I bring you some ficdom for your enjoyment._**

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

An hour or so after the scene with Jack (who Raz later learned, to his disappointment, had escaped Sasha and was now on the run), after assuring countless doctors, nurses, higher-rank agents, reporters, and activists that there was no lasting damage from the tear gas that he was aware of, Raz was finally deposited in an empty hospital room and ordered firmly that he would be staying there overnight until they could sort out his 'affairs'. The room was designed and capable of holding up to two patients, with two white beds divided by a teal curtain, but the bed closest to the door was currently empty—the other holding Raz. That being said, this left Raz alone and quickly bored, furthered by the fact that there was nothing on TV and he wasn't hurt. So far he had only found two things to hold his interest for any certain length of time. One was a paddleball. The other was a rapidly evolving mystery he found himself in the middle of.

_Pokpokpokpokpokpokpok_… Up and down the little red ball rocketed, and as it bounced, Raz thought. So many things about this case didn't add up, he felt like a detective trying to solve a hard murder. Or, in this case, a kidnapping. Why would Jack go to all the trouble to lock himself up if he'd just be found out as soon as a proper agent could see his face? Why the peach fuzz? Why the dirty suit? Why the mental blocks? Heck, why the whole basement cavern, the hired guards, the locked doors, when he could have just as well met the Psychonauts at his front door?

_Pokpokpokpokpokpokpok_… And then, when Jack had had Sasha and Raz right where he wanted them, why did he use tear gas instead of the actually-fatal mustard gas? Why was the gas yellow, when it was normally white, yet held the same effects as the regular kind? Why was it in such an intricate container? Why didn't he become affected by it?

_Pokpokpokpokpokpokpok_… What was with what he himself had spoken when Jack had whispered those words to him? Had he been temporarily hypnotized? Was he, even now, still under mind control, dreaming of a hospital room while his body robbed banks, snorted crack, importuned prostitutes, dug its pseudo-gleeful, bloody hands into the mutilated corpses of his friends… or worse? Or had he, at some point in time, had a chip unknowingly implanted in his brain, firing off subliminal messages into his lower brainstem that could only be responded to with key words? Was he possessed? What did the words 'yes, yes it would' mean? And what was the plan Jack had hinted at, the one that would be ruined if he died?

_Pokpokpokpokpokpokpok_… What was a Carrier? Was it connected to Jack's plan? Was it about something 'carried' inside him, something Jack had wondered, in his mind, if he could infect Raz with? Was it a virus, one that he could unknowingly spread to others just from drinking their water or coughing? Was it a bomb, like in _The Timed Man_, that would go off as soon as a timer he couldn't see hit zero, killing everyone? Was it a new and improved version of the T-virus? _Was he pregnant_!?

_Pokpokpokpokpokpokpok_… And what of Sasha's own plan, then? Was it connected to Jack's Carrier plan? Was he secretly evil and planning to overthrow the Psychonauts by, say, the sudden murder of the real Truman after Raz would have brought him to him, had the mission been a success? He probably needed Truman for it, considering the mission that had aggravated him so, but what for? Just to kiss ass and ask for a promotion? Either way, based on the anger which he had expressed at Raz and had unsuccessfully tried to hide at his big, fat failure, Raz doubted it had to do with him getting a raise because of good work and sportsmanship. But, then again, he couldn't be sure. Maybe that was the whole point… _Ugh_!

With a frustrated growl, Raz threw the paddleball to the ground and flung himself onto his left side against the bed, simultaneously yanking the thin blanket over his angry, shaking frame and flicking off the light using TK. Facing away from the door, he shot a teeth-baring glare at the wall, aggravated by his lack of solutions. However, at the loss of the light, the room was cast into blue-tinted shadows, revealing that it was much later than he had thought. Sure enough, at his curious glance, he could see that the uncovered window just above his bed showed only darkness and the glitter of scattered stars. While he'd been trying to entertain himself, the sun had set, casting all of the lonely space into dark and cold. He checked the clock, which he'd found hidden in the nightstand's only drawer while searching for a book or something else like it. It read _8:03 PM, 6/18, Tuesday_ to his prying eyes. He raised an eyebrow, remembering that the sun had still been shining by the time he'd arrived at the hospital, dizzy and Sasha-less. Had that much time really passed? Woah—he'd missed dinner! Not that mattered (he wasn't hungry), but still… wow. Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with the shame of it. He knew the agents there would be watching him like hawks, waiting for one sign of weakness from the Youngest Psychonaut Ever. He'd have to live with the humiliation of not even knowing what Truman looked like _and_ try to fight some greasy cafeteria chicken past a stomach upset with both the results of the gas (he'd lied to the others about the lack of side-effects) and the guilt of having not even sifted through the hefty packet of information regarding the mission, considering it irrelevant and driven cocky by his defeat of Oleander and Loboto. Seriously, it was the length of a book! How was he supposed to read all that? He wished he had, desperately. Then he could have just blown a raspberry (or rather, a Razberry) at Jack and skipped off, leaving him to rot in his cell while he and Sasha blasted off to find the real Truman.

Suddenly, as if offended by his lack of reading, Raz felt a familiar heavy weight hit the blanket, just above his upturned side. He jerked a little, startled awake without even being aware that he'd fallen asleep. His eyes sprung open, and he spent just a moment convinced that the papers had come to take their revenge by burying him alive under their post-tree bulk… Then he realized that someone had lightly tossed the tan folder at him, someone standing silently beside his previously-dozing body in a creepy, Alfred Hitchcock's _Psycho_ kind of way. He didn't need to be psychic to tell who it was, either… though it helped.

"Read this. It was written to help you," an exasperated German voice spoke, having determined Razputin's wakefulness from either his slight motion or some form of high-up, super-secret, über Deutch psychic sleep detector power. However, despite this humorous theory, Raz's emotions were dragged into the metaphorical dirt by the next and last words Sasha spoke to him for the night, brought upon with a tone of sternness and dejection: "I'm very disappointed in you, Razputin." And then Raz heard the sound of measured footsteps fading off, a door opening (casting a rectangle of white light along the room) and closing again, and then silence.

For a while Raz just lay there, the papers weighing down his side, struggling to regain control of his emotions. He had to act tough if he was going to find the answer to this mystery, after all. He could bawl like a baby and join Clem and Crystal on the roof _after_ Jack had been put behind bars and Sasha saw him as something special again. He decided to approach the mystery with one of the questions he had that he could actually answer.

Flipping onto a sitting position, Raz snatched the hefty folder from its spot and settled it onto his lap. The limited amount of light, gained from the starlight and the light in the crack under the door, wasn't much, but it was enough to read the title on the folder: Case 285-909-628. A bunch of useless numbers and dashes, designed only to further dissuade him from actually reading this folder. Still, he had to know.

With an unsteady air, Raz pulled open the cover, gazing upon a series of serif-font, computerized information. This first page was just basic stuff; his name, gender, age, address, phone number, rank, code number, legal guardian(s), mission summary, target, location… _et cetera_. This wasn't what he was looking for. What he was looking for was something he suspected was in here, even early in it, and reasoning behind Sasha's frustration and Raz's shame. He turned the page again.

There. Nestled into the page like inscriptions in a scrapbook were the exact things he was afraid of: photographs. There was one of Sasha, of him, of various gardeners and servants that worked in the estates, of Jack, and of one person Raz didn't recognize but was labeled as the Grand Head. Each picture contained a write-up of the photographee's name and a short bio to boot. Truman (a dark-haired man who reminded Raz of a Malibu Santa) was written up as 'a generous and well-meaning individual with a kind demeanor and hints of Multiple Personality Disorder'. Jack was 'an enigma'. Sasha was 'a classy genius and skilled telepathist and marksman with a surprisingly caring nature'. Raz was 'a vastly talented, confident child prodigy and acrobat with impressive potential'. In any case, regardless of his potential, the fact was that he wouldn't have made such a huge mistake if he had even bothered to open up the folder before the mission like he was told. Instead, too excited for the mission and hyped-up to read the hundred-plus pages of information, he'd lied to the other agents ("yeah, yeah, I read it"), when he hadn't even bothered to open it, let alone read it. No wonder Sasha was disappointed in him. He hadn't even gotten to page two.

Raz allowed himself sixty seconds of wallowing in his own misery, hugging the papers to his chest and shivering, before he followed through with his next idea. The papers had given him an idea—all he needed to do was see if it would work. He hid his misty eyes with a small smile at the thought, then snuggled up into the bed as if he were going to sleep again. He yanked the blanket up to his shoulders, reveling at the warmth they gave off, then grabbed the spare pillow and wrapped his arms around its squishy texture, therefore pinning and hiding the folder between himself and it. To anyone else, he would have looked like a young boy gone to sleep for the night, which was good; he didn't want to be disturbed.

It was then that, with the hard sheaf of papers pressing against his ribcage, Raz used Clairvoyance. Instantly his eyes drooped, then closed, and soon he was walking down the hospital hallway in the body of Sasha Nein.

_No_, Raz thought dimly as he saw Sasha start a casual conversation with one of the agents walking down the hall in the opposite direction. _I don't want this. Let's back up a bit, shall we? Have to concentrate…_

One moment Sasha was walking placidly down the tile halls of the hospital, watching nurses and doctors cart around patients and supplies with a kind of bored interest. The next he had stopped, reversing direction to begin walking backwards in that same, casual pace. This would have been weird, were it not for the fact that all the other people were walking backwards, too, darting through magically opening and closing doors, calling open push doors to close towards them with a magnetic palm, placing napkins onto the ground and then backing away, only to have the same napkin flutter up onto a passing cart… And then Sasha was running backwards, sprinting faster than he'd ever done, faster and faster, watching people bolt around like hyperactive lizards, summoning the folder off Raz's bed, rocketing through the exit door and pulling them closed behind him, back into his car, now bulleting down the road, somehow missing other reverse cars, and then… _Wait, stop there! …What's this?_

Sasha was stationed inside the Psychonauts HQ of Specter City, Wisconsin, which Raz recognized as the only HQ in all of the Midwest. He was in the Foreign Objects wing, standing behind a stereotypically wirey scientist and examining a computer screen full of complex data. Whatever they were looking at must have been important, because both were staring at it with furrowed eyebrows and intense glares. The folder Raz now held was on a desk just behind the two.

"I'm sorry, Agent Nein," the scientist squeaked, adjusting his round glasses up on a sweating, button nose. His blue eyes looked disconcertingly buggy behind them, and his white-blonde hair seemed charged with static electricity in a way similar to Ford's oozing-sandwich 'do. "I can't find any strands of Deoxyribonucleic Acid on the sample you brought me, aside from Jack's own code. I can't even cross-reference the design you described with any well-known tear gas manufacturers, be it official police and riot control distributions or underground development. This water-bomb isn't a type that's been made before, at least not a type that's been shown anywhere."

"But why would he go to all the trouble to hide where he got this?" Sasha pondered aloud, while Raz was just trying to figure out what 'deoxy-ribs-whatever' meant. The lab rat, however, had an answer.

"Well, the composition of the gas, as far as I can configure, is made from your everyday, household products; ammonia, drain cleaner, monosodium glutamate, and so on. If my theory is correct, than Jack invented this bomb himself. That would explain why I can't trace it back to anyone other than him."

"That makes even less sense. Doctor Gattaca, can you see if there's anything besides bleach in there?" As Sasha poured over the screen, Gattaca rolled his huge eyes, muttering something along the lines of 'bleach, sure, let's all dilute our gas with that, it may ruin the whole thing but it makes a good cleaner'. If Sasha heard it, though, he didn't comment, and Gattaca set to work on the keyboard.

"Well," he sighed as he typed, "there's some vague traces of minute grains of rock, mostly quartz, hints of glucose… probably just from hand contact… and some chemicals I can't identify. That's odd." He typed faster, staring intently at the screen. "Strange. There's a light dusting of some form of molecule bonding I'm unaware of. It has a similar makeup to a peyote… or possibly a mixture between marijuana and caffeine… odd."

"What?" Sasha demanded, leaning over Dr. Gattaca's chair. "What does it do?" Gattaca bit his lip for a moment before responding, now having both Sasha and Raz on edge.

"Well, as far as I can tell, it's a mixture of both stimulants and depressants, I'd guess to simultaneously excite a part of the mind while dulling another. It's dead when exposed to oxygen, though. Whether it's in your lungs or in the bomb, the concoction is entirely dormant. To put it bluntly, you lucked out, Agent Nein. Jack must have made an amateur miscalculation while brewing it, the hectopascal." Sasha blinked.

"Excuse me if I sound foolish, but why? Why try to depress and excite someone at the same time?" Dr. Gattaca made a tsking noise at this, waving his hand dismissingly.

"Good Lord, Agent Nein, think about it. Imagine someone with rampant sexual hormones, yet the inability to leave her bedroom—"

"I'd rather not."

"Or someone with their lower brainstem—that's the individual thought area—deadened, yet their emotional anger twisted up until they become little more than a killing machine. Or maybe, in an act of revenge, someone suddenly becoming paralyzed and unnaturally terrified of you, just as you come in with a baseball bat… Yes, Agent Nein, you're very lucky that the bomb didn't work." Sasha gave a long sigh at this, as opposed to Dr. Gattaca's proud grin. As Dr. Gattaca and the clairvoyant stowaway watched, he pressed a gloved hand against his forehead, shaking his head slowly.

"And to think, this wouldn't have happened, if only Raz had bothered to read that damn report." Raz blushed again, moving to grip the pillow tighter. Thanks to him, they had almost faced some sort of strange, twisted form of death or torture, either spending the rest of their lives dangling from Bedlar's puppet strings or screaming in fright as he beat their paraplegic bodies into the ground with a bat… His dumb mistake had nearly cost them more than their lives. He deserved to be fired, if not banished from the country as a witch.

Dr. Gattaca, however, had different ideas. As Sasha watched, he wagged a teasing finger at the agent. His blue eyes were alight with mirth, and he resembled a giggling child rather than the aging scientist he was.

"I would count my blessings if I were you, Agent Nein. You're both alive, safe, and un-possessed, Jack's on the run, and the worst that's happened is that a child is beating himself up right now and a few people lost a few wagers. Do you really think things would have ended so well if Razputin actually had correctly identified Jack? Judging from what you told me, Bedlar was hoping that he would, so that he could launch that bomb inside the basement, subduing and quite possibly murdering your friend, before moving on to backstabbing you. Raz's mistake probably saved both your lives." Raz, at this, felt a surge of pride to drown out his sorrow. He had actually _saved_ the both of them? That had to score some points with Sasha; just knowing that they were okay and not rotting in a rocky basement… _But that would ruin everything, wouldn't it, Razputin?_

"…Yes. I guess you're right," Sasha admitted. "Still, that was incredibly irresponsible of him. I'll admit, he is still a child, but he was nevertheless strictly ordered to read the documents_ thoroughly_. He didn't even open it, remarkably." He kneaded his brow, even as Raz meekly watched him for what was coming next. Trouble… or gratitude? "He doesn't understand. He's the youngest person to ever enter in the Psychonauts since the organization began by a good three years, the first prepubescent, and one of the very few who ever entered without at least a month's worth of Psicadet training. He is in many ways a test project. Thousands of eyes are on him, just _waiting _for him to make a mistake. He has to be the perfect role model, to show the world that he does, in fact, belong here. He has extreme prejudices against him—already the parking lot is crowded with child labor activists trying to convince the Psychonauts that he's too little. Any mistake could be the breaking point to cast him back out, and then to hear that he isn't even _trying_ to succeed any longer… ach."

"Indeed. This is quite a quandary, isn't it, Alexander?" a voice suddenly spoke up, one that didn't belong to Raz, Sasha, or Dr. Gattaca. At once, the three turned around (or rather, Raz followed their vision in turning) to see who was there.

What they saw was a human penguin. Not unlike the Penguin from _Batman_, this one was clothed in a Psychonauts uniform done up in the alternate colors of black and silver. He wore a classic paper-boy beanie hat, which hid a nest of curly black hair. His eyes were sharp and glinting behind gold-wired glasses, and he walked with an oaken cane that Raz doubted was subscription. His belly fat bulged over the suit, and his short, stubby legs walked, not with a typical waddle, but with an elegant glide. At the other two's looks, he smiled and apologized.

"My apologies, gentlemen, but I couldn't help but become aware that you were discussing quite the conundrum." Sasha glared at the fat man.

"What do you want, Chester?" The fat man—Chester—just grinned wider at this, until his smile resembled that of a hungry shark. Raz immediately decided that he didn't like him.

"Why, nothing. I'm just here to remind you of something that I think you've forgotten. Alexander, I must advise that you cease your coddling of the boy at once. Regardless of age, he's still an agent. And when an agent cannot comprehend something so simple, than he—or she—must be left behind. Our agency has no need for slackers." He then caught sight of the computer screen, and his smile dimmed a little. "As for the bomb, I have to say to watch your behind on that one. Just because the poison is dormant now doesn't mean it will always be, and its consequences can be most… unpleasant."

"Your concern is appreciated, but I don't think we need your advice, now or ever," Sasha brusquely dismissed Chester, making no comment on Raz's position. Chester didn't take the hint, though, and just kept smiling.

"Ah, ah, ah, Alexander. Remember our wager. There's no sense in demeaning your opponent. And getting back to the bomb, well, you or he won't do any good to either of us if you're dead, now, will you? I'm just looking out for the children." He chuckled, turning towards the door and strolling casually away. In just a moment he had vanished as suddenly and oddly as he had appeared, leaving a mysterious silence in the room and a cold feeling of dread to settle in Raz's stomach.

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_Ah ha! If you look closely, you can see that some questions Raz was pondering have, in fact, been answered in this chapter. But where, you'll have to find out for yourself! HA HA HA! _

_(PSST! Every time you review, Chester and Jack get their heads smacked together wrestling style! DON'T YOU WANT TO SEE THAT!?)_


	5. Attack of the Clones

**_Wow. This place has been kind of... dead. However, it's starting to pick up again, so I thought I'd help speed up the process a little with a new chapter of LABD, yay! You all enjoy this while I finish up some projects and try to get back to CD101 and SC:CP. Man, doing the flashback scenes is more boring than I thought... but I have to put them in now, because THE END IS NIGH. Gasp. Add that to my to-do list: finish the plushie and put up pictures, work on mysterious DeviantART comic project and post that, make fanart, add new chapters to each fanfic, paint latticework fence, paint farm buildings for zero pay (...sigh...), make important decision about whether to kill a stray cat that's been hurting my housecat or risk housecat to save stray's life, find a potato (seeing as there were NONE spotted in Idaho... even if they grow underground...), find a new sketchbook WITHOUT water damage, write a LiveJournal entry, and sleep. Yep, gonna' be a busy end of summer, even if no one realizes it but me. xD_**

**_For now, enjoy this chapter. Now with more pain and suffering than ever! Oh, and review, please. Please. Please. D8 I'm so lonely._**

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

The conversation with Chester aside, Sasha made no more notes about Raz to anyone. The psychic stowaway was saved any more instances of his ears burning or an unprecedented sneeze coming on as Sasha kindly thanked Dr. Gattaca for his hard work, grabbed his things (including the folder), and prepared to leave. The two exchanged promises to be watchful for any side-effects and keep tabs on the gas sample, respectively, and a few more bits of drivel were exchanged before Sasha and future!Raz found themselves winding down the path towards Sasha's cobalt black Mitsubishi, with full intentions of heading back to the hospital only slightly more informed.

This plan was driven to a halt, though, as Sasha suddenly became aware of an odd noise emanating from the room he had just left. It was, more accurately, a series of sounds: a yelp, an angered growl, a squeaky chair sliding, and then, as if the noise was trying to calm itself down, a series of tiny clacks. Now, neither Sasha nor Raz were fools and, as such, they were able to recognize the sounds and determine what had caused them—some angry fellow (probably Chester) had forced Dr. Gattaca from his chair and taken over his computer, probably betting on the fact that Sasha had already driven off.

With steely grace, Sasha ran up to the window with light and quick steps, Raz in hot pursuit. They both stopped just before ramming into the pane of glass, instead peering through it to see what was up.

They were right. Chester, unaware of Sasha's presence (and obviously unaware of Raz), was greedily pouring over the information on the computer screen, having somehow managed to squeeze his fat ass onto the tiny chair Dr. Gattaca had been sitting on. The mousey doctor, meanwhile, was sitting, terrified, on the floor where Chester had thrust him aside, watching the penguin man with eyes that seemed even buggier than before.

_Quick, we have to stop him_! Raz thought, being unable to speak in the flashback. He turned to Sasha, spreading his arms and glaring at him as if he could somehow see the future ghost boy thing without creating a time paradox. _I mean, he's not doing anything majorly bad, but… uh… What about Dr. Gattaca!? We have to help that guy!_

Sasha turned around. Even as Raz thought-screamed himself hoarse, waving his arms like a dim-witted pigeon, he climbed into the car, started the engine, and drove quickly back to the present. Nevermind what Chester was doing. He'd gotten what he came for.

Raz, being too busy yelling at his mentor, didn't notice when Chester let out a wild growl of frustration as the power cord to the computer was yanked out of its socket. When the fat man looked down, however, he saw nothing but air. Already some ways away, Sasha just smiled.

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

The clairvoyant vision over, Raz nevertheless didn't move, having found a comfortable spot on the bed right where he was. He was tired, after all, and felt like now would be a good time to call off everything for the night. He snuggled against the pillow a little tighter, paused, then threw the hard-edged paperwork to the ground. It scattered a little, becoming like a thick Japanese paper fan. He'd have to remember to step over that in the morning…

...Raz fell asleep, and silence took over the room.

**_-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --_**

_When Raz came to, he found himself in a bush. He sat up groggily, casting off leaves and branches alike from his jacket. However, some of the shiny jade leaves remained on his sleeves, so he reached over with his right hand to wipe them off._

_It was then that he realized he was holding a gun. It was a small, silver hand pistol, and he didn't have to check to know it wasn't empty. The barrel was full—no room for Russian Roulette here. He even knew what it was for, and smiled at the thought. Soon his targets would come, and then he'd show them just how 'unstable' he really was._

"_Raz, baby, where are you?" a voice called his name, the Brazilian accent ringing thick and familiar. He smirked. One down. Now, where was—_

"_Razputin, answer me!" a German accent echoed, tallying for the second target. They were both here, at Whispering Rock. He'd led them right into his trap, like lambs to the slaughter. He bit back a laugh with difficulty, trying to keep his hiding place secret for just one more minute… He managed to keep his insane laugh down to a creepy (but quiet) chuckle, then raised his weapon. He'd have to peek over the bush in order to properly aim, but if he was fast enough it shouldn't be a problem._

_Slowly, keeping his body fluid enough so that the branches didn't creak and give him away, he slipped into a crouching position. However, as soon as he'd gotten into the pose, he realized it wouldn't work for his new tastes. Instead, he stood up fully, managing to crack a few branches in the process. This made his presence be alerted to the other two agents, but that was fine with him. Let him be the last thing they ever saw. He tucked the hand holding his weapon behind his back; no need to alarm them so soon._

"_Raz, darling!" Milla cried, somehow looking both relieved and horror-struck. Sasha's expression was unreadable behind those damn sunglasses, but his mouth was drawn into a tight frown. Raz matched their looks with his own big smile. He moved his other hand, keeping both arms behind him in a stereotypically 'innocent' look. Matched with his Cheshire Cat grin, however, the effect just furthered the creepy atmosphere. It also had no effect on Sasha (at least, not one that could be clearly seen), as he stepped forward, brandishing a badge and shiny, pink, psychic handcuffs taken from his jacket pocket. _

"_Razputin Aquato, you are under arrest by the Psychonauts for assisting a wanted runaway, threatening minors and other agents, manslaughter, murder, attempted murder, and the use of strictly illegal mind-control methods. Surrender now or we will be forced to subdue and detain you by psychic means. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot provide one, one will be provided for you." Raz just grinned wider; a feat normally thought impossible, considering the already malformed smirk already on his face. He fingered the trigger, eager to further his plans. _

"_You wound me, guys. And here I thought we were friends. Oh, well." It was then that, with a flourish, he yanked out the pistol. "Sorry, guys." There was no heart in his apology, though, as he was too far gone to nurture even a tiny bit of care for the others. He fired twice. Two direct, fatal hits to the skull. The other agents fell like puppets with their strings cut, their eyes still wide with shock and horror. They didn't have time to shield. Instead, the grass was stained with a mighty spray of blood, shooting from their brains in a fountain. A few drops hit Raz's jeans, and he wiped them off nonchalantly, uncaring._

_The other campers were coming out. Curious, childish faces poked out from windows and doorframes of the cabins, all their wide eyes locked onto him. Each had the same expression: numb shock, questioning surprise. Raz returned their gazes, his own eyes panning over them all in turn. He saved Lili for last, keeping his eyes on here for a moment longer than everyone else. Then, after several moments, he spoke._

"_It's our turn." That was it; their expressions changed to those of joy, and they all commenced cheering. Raz pumped up a fist, undoubtedly the leader of the homicidal campers. He had his army now._

_The delight lasted for all of three seconds. As he watched his fellow campers cheer, and felt the blood slide down the wet grass and towards his shoes, he was overcome with a sudden, horrible feeling. His head abruptly burst into rolling waves of agony, jabbing into his brain like spikes. His eyes bulged, and he collapsed beside the fallen agents, screaming and clawing at his scalp like a madman. The cheers of joy melted into sardonic jeers and taunts, his army picking at his pain like vultures. He didn't pay them heed, though, as he was too busy staring at the ground, on his knees, his heart pounding in his chest._

"_Augh… _n-no_!" he grunted, digging his nails into his head until he felt warmth ooze between them. "I can't… I won't… it hurts…" He fell flat on his face, grimacing. He turned his head weakly, and was just able to catch sight of the two agents he had just killed. Just looking at them, he felt tears spring to his eyes. They were a mixture of misery from pain, loss, and desperation, a far cry from the power he'd felt as he stole someone else's life. He lifted his head slightly, trying to see them more clearly._

"_Agent Nein… Vodello… help me…" he begged, the salty tears dripping down his cheeks like miniature ice cubes. "I'm sorry…" No one answered him. The campers had all left to further the evil plans he had spawned, leaving their leader behind to watch the results of his cruelty, and the agents were already dead. He was alone. With a traumatized sob, Raz laid his head to rest against the grass, shaking and crying. He was alone, alone, alone…_

"_No, Raz. You're not alone. You're never alone," a cold voice spoke up, tearing Raz away from his bitter loss. Slowly, blinking back misty tears, he looked up again. There were two figures in front of him. One had finely polished black shoes, while the other made due with fluffy black socks. Gradually, Raz panned his vision up, higher and higher._

_He recognized both people. One was Jack, now neatly shaved and dressed in a black suit, crimson undershirt, black tie, and, of course, the shoes. His arms were lightly crossed, and he regarded the fallen Raz with a casual, though evil, smile._

_The second made Raz gasp. The second person was… himself. The other him was dressed in a pair of pajamas Raz owned but hadn't worn yet. They were a gift to him from his older brother, Atlas, sent to him in an unmarked package in the mail after the former found out that Raz had achieved his dream. They were almost as emo-looking as the clothes Atlas used to wear (and probably still did), with a black-with-red-short-sleeves baseball shirt design for the top, coupled with twin parallel black stripes running down the red shoulders. The pants were the opposite of the sleeves—black, with red twin stripes running down the outer side of each leg. He made a mental note to put them on tomorrow night; after all, they looked awesome on him. That was, provided he survived tonight._

"_Look at this, Razputin. Your weaker half," Jack crowed, effortlessly picking up the fallen ex-evil Raz up by his sweater collar. Raz gasped slightly at this, tugging at his collar weakly. The other Raz (who he now christened Razputin, for convenience) just scowled at him. "Pathetic. Two murders and he falls apart. He doesn't have the potential you do." _

"…_A c-clone?" Raz spluttered, confused beyond a doubt. Jack rolled his eyes, yanking Raz a little closer._

"_Not even close, you stupid child. This is you. Or rather, what I want you to become." Raz's memory again flashed back to an issue of _True Psychic Tales_, he couldn't remember which number. As he remembered it, though, he also remembered what Agent Smith in the situation._

"_No! I'll never work for you, you madman!" he spat with sudden energy, kicking his feet up. However, Jack just extended his arm out, and the tip of Raz's shoe came just an inch or two shy of the millionaire's face. He let out an irritated cry, swinging his legs and making claws of his outstretched fingers in vain. Dammit, _why_ didn't he have a growth spurt like all the other kids!? He kept going for about a minute, jerking around and cursing until he tired himself out. He gave one more, slow swing, then sank down into himself, gasping. Jack, meanwhile, seemed mildly amused._

"_Are you done?" He didn't wait for a sarcastic response. "Good. It seems you've overstayed your usefulness, in any case. Perhaps your better will be able to take up where you left off. No, wait. There's no 'perhaps' about it. Razputin, would you kindly rid us of our pesky guest?" Jack's hand unclamped, and Raz crumpled to the ground. He sat up quickly, though, just in time to catch sight of his evil twin take Jack's place in front of him. His hand was out, and a warm orange light encompassed it. Meanwhile, his eyes glowed the exact same shade, narrowed in utter loathing._

"_Please," Raz begged, his eyes wide. His twin didn't even blink. There would be no mercy from this evil Jack fantasy. Yet still, Raz knew: if Razputin won, then he wouldn't be a fantasy any longer. He'd escape Raz's nightmares and storm into the real world, murder Sasha and Milla, and convert all of Raz's friends and fellow campers into his evil minions to take over the world. Raz couldn't let that happen._

_With a graceful, acrobatic flip, Raz tumbled out of the way a mere half-second before the orange blast would have turned him into fried chicken. He rolled in the grass, biting back a scream as the motion sent his headache pounding._

"_Humph," Jack huffed upon seeing Raz's dodge. "Persistent little dot, aren't you? Well, then. Razputin, no holding back. Kill him!" _

"_Uh-oh," Raz peeped, running out of the way of another blast… and another… and another. He danced past the shots, missing others and getting grazed by some. Razputin eventually abandoned the stand-and-fire technique, instead running after his prey at a speed that couldn't be beaten. Raz struggled to think of a plan as Razputin ran circles around him, tossing his twin around as easily as a toy. _

"_Augh!" Raz cried out as he was slammed against a cabin wall, the force making his back crack in a way that neither felt natural nor soothing. Then, with a firm hand against his twin's collarbone, Razputin punched Raz in the stomach with abnormal strength, making the latter gasp and cough. Blood dripped from his mouth in salty splashes, signaling intense internal damage. _

_However, Raz wasn't out yet. He grabbed Razputin's wrist (the one embedded in his gut), then let loose with a high, powerful kick to his evil twin's chin. The twin flew back, spewing a small stream of blood and one or two teeth. His back hit the ground hard, bounced… and bounced back onto his feet, practically spitting fire. Raz just gasped a little, pained and facing heavy damage. This version of himself was stronger, faster, more agile, more resilient, and far more merciless. He had to stop him from winning… but how?_

_Suddenly Razputin darted forward, slamming a psychic fist into Raz's ribcage and sacrificing a few ribs. Raz felt himself falling towards the ground at a rapid rate, screaming bloody murder, but just managed to put his palms forward. As such, his palms hit the ground first, taking the impact of the blow. They groaned in protest, the first few layers of glove and skin scraping off as they slid across the dirt a few inches, but Raz pushed them just a little further. He bent his elbows, then quickly shot them back, springing up into the air with acrobatic grace._

"_Eat this!" Raz proclaimed, driving his boots into the neck of his counterpart. The twin gave a bubbling, choked scream at this, lashing out with his fingers and clawing at Raz's legs like an animal. Raz drove him into the ground, then sprang off, wrenching his backpack from his shoulders as he landed. He knew he couldn't beat Razputin—especially not now, with his head screaming, ribs broken, and everything uncannily sore for what should have been a dream. Only one thing could save him now, and that was—_

_Suddenly the evil Razputin attacked, sending a powerful kick to the small of Raz's back and sending him sprawling into the grass. The items once nestled in his pack were sent tumbling across the campgrounds, falling to the earth in a messy pile just a few tantalizing inches from Raz's reach. _

_Raz attempted to crawl across, pawing desperately through random items in search of the one, small thing that could save him now. He grabbed up great fistfuls of stuff, gasping for air as he forced down the urge to panic. However, Razputin was having none of that. With a twisted grin, he jammed his socked foot down against Raz's spine, again and again, three times, with far too much strength to be natural. He kept smiling, though, as his ears were greeted with the cacophonous sound of bones cracking, disks slipping, and the good twin letting out tearful shrieks of agony. His spine shattered… he'd never walk again… unless…_

_With a desperation breeching well past hysteria, Raz tore through his items, raking until his fingers were raw. It was a miracle in and of itself that he could still move his arms, but Razputin put a stop to that. With a glee Raz had never known, he snatched his twin's right arm, giving it a yank and wrenching it from its socket joint. Raz attempted to scream at this, but all that came out was a bubbling noise, on account of all the blood oozing from his mouth. A few bubbles formed and popped in it as a result of his breath, but for the most part it remained still._

"_Y-you… won't…" Raz struggled to speak, overcome with extreme pain. His arm wouldn't move, his legs felt atrophied, his ribs flared red-hot, his heart was skipping beats, his lungs were probably full of blood (noncardiogenic pulmonary edema), his skin was pale and icy, and, to put it bluntly, he was dying… but he still managed to smile. His twin looked at him, curious and already reaching for his other arm. His right was flat on the ground, but his left was balled in a tight fist. Slowly, as his evil twin watched, he uncurled his fist, even chuckling as the golden glint caught the light, revealing…_

…_A packet of smelling salts. _

_Razputin froze for a moment, staring at the container as if he couldn't quite recognize it. Then it clicked, and the evil twin let out an inhuman howl of rage, diving for the tiny oval. But, no; Raz hadn't come that far just to give up that container. With a smirk, he twisted his one good limb towards his head, leaving his doppelganger to fall to the dirt at his side. The twin had just enough time to twist his head, his bright orange eyes meeting the dying emerald glow of Raz's. Logic told him that this was the time to wake up; his ego told him that he could wait a second._

"_I win, bitch," he spluttered out through the warm crimson, before gripping one end of the salt packet in his teeth, pulling the other end out with his good hand. Razputin made an angry but half-hearted swipe at the container, but it was much too late. The golden container broke, spilling crystalline grains of ammonium carbonate and releasing a tiny cloud of ammonia. This forced Raz to instinctively inhale, taking in the ammonia and forcing himself awake._

_The dreamscape Whispering Rock vanished with his disappearance, as they had never existed. The evil twin, Sasha's and Milla's deaths, the campers' zombie-like army formation, and every single scratch Raz had gotten throughout the fight evanescenced, becoming nothing more than a memory of a dream…_

…_And a dire warning. But Raz wouldn't find that out until later, and by then it would be too late._

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**_To Be Continued! Whee!_**


	6. Discharged

**_Okay, guys, I know you're out there. I can hear you squealing in excitement over the idea of a new chapter. I can see your hit marks on Reader Traffic. I can smell what you had for dinner last night. But I cannot READ YOUR COMMENTS. D8 Don't you want the story to continue? Don't you want to solve the many, many mysteries surrounding it? DON'T YOU WANT TO BE COOL? This thing doesn't run on sunshine and happy dust, people. I NEED influence. I need it or my head will explode. That happens to me sometimes. So make with the comments and we all win. You get more chapters, and I can stop holding a gun to your forehead. Okay? Okay. Now, on with the chapter._**

**_Warning: Contains angst. Whee!_**

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Raz jerked awake in the hospital bed, gasping and biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming at the same time. His body and sheets were riddled with sweat, and he became hopelessly tangled up in the latter in his struggle to escape, rolling off the bed in a panicked lump. For just a moment he was convinced that his evil twin was still there, clad in black socks and sleeves turned crimson from more than just design, ready to torture him senseless and then toss him aside like a bloody candy wrapper to continue his evil plans… But no. Raz was alone.

Slowly, slowly, sucking in air with a hitching noise, Raz calmed down. It was all a dream, he realized. Just a bad dream as a result of… uh… stress from work, shame from his failure, and exhaustion. Yeah, that was it… _if he was willing to buy that crap_. The dream had all the elements of a dream, sure, but something about it had just felt so _real_. He didn't know how he knew, but he did—he was damn lucky to have gotten away. That evil twin he'd dreamed of wasn't just a figment. It—he—was as real as him, the hospital, and the sheet he was currently struggling to untangle himself from.

Still, Raz pushed aside memories of the dream once he managed to kick the sheet off and stand up. He sighed heavily, running a hand along the curve of his forehead and wiping off a pool of sweat, then glanced at the clock conveniently sitting on his nightstand. 6:38. The alarm wasn't set to go off until seven, but Raz didn't feel like sleeping any longer; not with his evil twin waiting. So, with another sigh, he flicked the switch on the back and shut it off.

"Ah," he groaned, stretching his arms above his head. Well, now that the dream was over with and he was up for the day, might as well check himself out and see what's up with the Psychonauts.

Raz walked down the entry hall of Psychonauts HQ; the one that lead straight to the main office. He was determined to make it a habit to stop there every morning—after all, that was where he got his mail, mission debriefings, and other important documents. Not to mention, what with so many agents gathering there for the same reason, it made for a sort of hub to the merry bands of psychics. That being said, he added onto his mental list of things to do, so that it now read something like:

_**Raz's To Do List**_

_FIND OUT SASHA'S EVIL (?) PLAN_

_FIND OF JACK'S EVIL PLAN_

_Find out source of creepy nightmare_

_Check mail and updates_

_Get to know other agents_

_Find out about new plan to find Truman_

_Accept reprimand + shame for failure_

_Apologize profusely to Sasha_

_Beat world record for most grapes shoved into mouth at once_

_Write Dad and Lili_

_Consider investing in stilts to prevent further height/youth remarks_

_Milla says I need more fruit in my diet..._

_Milla says I need more food in my diet…_

_Graph out reporter 'hot spots'—MUST DO_

_Find out how to get grass stains out of jeans_

_READ THE DAMN BRIEFING!!_

…_Make shorter mental lists_

Raz sighed, the guilt from his severe lack of success falling into his stomach to replace the creepy residue of the nightmare, already fitting as snugly as a glove. Great. Was he going to be kicking himself all day? He wasn't quite the pessimistic type, and this feeling wasn't natural for him. And yet, Sasha being disappointed in him wasn't normal, either. He was used to being the source of praise and special treatment from the normally stoic German, and having it slapped in the face that he was cocky and arrogant as well as skilled was a shocker for both of them. As such, Sasha had distanced himself from Raz (or, at least that's how he saw it), suddenly reminded that Raz was just another dumb child. Raz, meanwhile, was still buried alive until the remains of an ego-empire he'd built off of the older agent's praise, which, until now, he'd been curled up on top of like a small dog on Sasha's lap. Now it had fallen, Sasha was "very disappointed", and Raz was left running after him with his tail between his legs.

Or maybe he was over-thinking this. Everyone makes mistakes, and Sasha knew that as well as anyone. Maybe, with a few successes and an apology, this whole thing could be spackled over, so that you could barely even see the dent now where a gaping hole had been. Like Napoleon, Raz's empire had fallen. But, unlike Napoleon, Raz could build it again. He'd show them! He'd rescue Truman by himself if he had to, even if he was being held by a bunch of super-sadists with wild tigers and laser technology and meteors on their side! Then Sasha would have to see just how awesome he was! Yeah, that was a great plan. All he had to do was… oh. He was here.

"Excuse me! Pardon me!" To the other, considerably taller agents, it would have looked like their kneecaps were under attack. Raz pushed against them, weaving his way past a sea of legs and, if he was lucky, midriffs. This… was going to be a problem. He was beginning to hate tall people.

Soon enough, however, Raz managed to push his way past the chatting and time-passing agents, earning a lot of odd looks in return, and collapse against the black granite of the front desk. He peered up, pressed tight against a throng of bodies, into three inquisitive faces. One was an old, jittery-looking old man in a black sweater and navy slacks, one was an old-fashioned Indian guy in full leather dress, and the third was a Chinese woman with a kind face and a fancy blue suit. Raz glanced down at his own, dusty clothes and felt a pang of embarrassment.

"O-oh, excuse me, son, but I would appreciate it k-kindly i-if you were to remove your f-f-foot from my own, i-if it's n-no trouble," the old man spoke, his voice every bit as jerky as his body. Raz glanced down again, confused, then gasped and lifted his foot.

"Oh, man, sorry!" he exclaimed, setting his foot down again where he was _positive_ no one was standing. His face flared red before he could stop it, and he meekly cast his eyes away. He really wasn't on the ball today… Nevertheless, the old man smiled warmly at him. He had nice teeth, but Raz guessed they were dentures.

"No w-worry, son. You're very l-light," he smiled, then turned back to resume his conversation with a pair of Siamese twins (A/N: that would be… two people… one body, not two… er… bodies, like as in four people… yeah… Is there such a thing as Siamese triplets…?). With him gone, Raz turned to the Indian guy, as if to say, "you want to comment, too?" The guy, however, said nothing and just turned away, as if he hadn't been analyzing Raz in the first place. Raz blinked, then shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"Hey there, hon. Can I help ya'll?" someone suddenly spoke up, their feminine voice full and thick with a classic Texan accent. Raz jerked, startled, then looked around the room, fully expecting a tanned blonde in plaid and overalls to stroll up to him. Everyone else, though, seemed to be involved in things of their own, and those who were looking at him were either just staring in surprise or whispering to another person.

"…What?" Raz asked cautiously, his eyes panning the room. The voice spoke again, and this time he was able to trace the sound.

"Not the brightest light in the store, eh, hon? I asked if I could help ya'll. No need t' git shy." Raz was able to catch a glimpse of the Chinese receptionist again. Sure enough, her dark brown eyes were locked on him, and her mouth was moving in time with the words. But that couldn't be right, because she was so… not… _Texan_.

"Y-yeah," Raz muttered, gaining confidence as he spoke. He was a quick recoverer, after all. If he could handle Bonita, he could handle this. Still his mind wasn't as adjusted for the odd as it was when he was in a mental world and, as such, he still fumbled a little with his words. "Yeah, I'm just here for my mail. O-oh, and Agent Nein. Have you seen him?" The receptionist chuckled, turning to a profile view and sifting through a drawer on her right. Raz just stared, still surprised by her accent and a little overcome by the feeling of being in a crowd of _psychics_, which had just started to sink in. He reminded himself that everyone in here was P-S-Y-C-H-I-C; not even that, but a _PSYCHONAUT_. He could spend his whole life here and not even learn everyone's names.

"I ain't seen Alex, but I've got a letter for ya', straight from the higher-ups at the ALPD. Ya' might want to sit down fer it, though, 'cause I've seen a lotta' letters in this job, an' this don't look like no invitation t' a birthday. Hard to tell, though. It's _electronically distributed_—no auras t' pick at." Raz took the envelope a little hesitantly, staring up at the receptionist and feeling lost.

"Thanks… uh… miss, but who's Alex? I asked for Agent Sasha Nein." The receptionist gave away three more notes to two more people before answering.

"Da—dang, hon, don't cha' know? 'Sasha' is a German name. Fer some reason I'll never know, it's short for 'Alexander' there. So that German's real name is Alexander Nein. Most people call 'im Sasha, but I've always been real partial to Alex. Plus, he hates it, an' he's just hysterical to aggravate. 'Course, I'm a little less expendable than yer everyday agent—even a kid, no offence—so I can afford t' do that. Not many people can, yerself included." Raz eyed the rim of the letter nervously.

"He wouldn't fire me for just a nickname… would he?"

"'Course not. He's not that strict. But ya' ever spend a night campin' in the GPC?"

"…No…"

"Then don't go callin' him 'Alex'. Now go read that letter—no missions fer a Razputin Aquato fer a while yet. Meanwhile, I got agents t' send off an' die." A few nearby agents laughed at this, apparently used to the receptionist's odd sense of humor. Raz chuckled anxiously, sneaking off to one of the chairs near the back. The four plastic, pastel blue, uncomfortable chairs were all taken, of course, but some guy in a red outfit got up and walked off in the direction of the bathrooms as soon as Raz came up, so he 'borrowed' his seat. That done, and with the guy in the seat next to him sawing logs, Raz read the front of the envelope.

_Administration of Psychic Labor and Distribution_

_3874 Papaya Way, 5__th__ Sector_

_Specter City, WI 54013_

Was who it was from.

_Agent Razputin Aquato_

_2973 Avocado Street, 7__th__ Sector_

_Specter City, WI 54013_

Was who it was to. There could be no doubt; whatever was in this letter was for him. And the receptionist was right; he didn't think it was a birthday invitation, either. He just hoped it was a reminder that he was ten years old and in the Psychonauts, two facts that didn't normally go together. He'd never know if he didn't open it, though, so, with shaking fingers, he peeled back the flap and pulled out a slip of stereotypically white paper. A tiny rectangle of yellow paper came out with it, but he ignored it for the moment, too absorbed in the words in the white one.

"Oh, _God_," he whispered. He felt bitter tears threaten at the corners of his eyes, but he held them at bay. He could break down when there weren't so many people. Even when his heart felt like stopping in sheer shock and horror, embarrassment still played a powerful role.

_Dear Agent Aquato,_ the letter read,

_It has come to our attention that your latest mission received a failing grade, which has been sourced partially to a deviant opposition, but also to your own incompetence regarding the mission briefing. Our company has been informed that you neglected to read the portfolio handed to you regarding the mission and, as such, the damages to you and your temporary partner, Agent Sasha Nein, were extensive as well as uncalled for. It should also be noted that this failure to read and respond to directions lead to the emergency loaning of an official Psychonauts medic helicopter, further delaying a critical shipment of medicine to a large group of infants and baby seals dying of a very painful disease. Not to mention that Jack was able to escape during the confusion caused by your mistake._

_A few of the members of the ALPD voted against your penalty for the said offence. While it was agreed that you still should face charges, we have taken into account your youth and inexperience to reduce your sentence somewhat. Though you are required by law to serve a five week suspension, you no longer have to stay overnight in the Geodesic Psychoisolation Chamber or run around the halls of headquarters in a maid's outfit. _

_So, yes, your five-week suspension will start today, or Day 1. On the day after Day 35 you may report back to Michelle James at the front office in order to resume your duties. We will expect you there at 8:00 AM sharp. Any delays will be met with stern consequences. _

_As for today, we fully expect you to follow a list of obligatory rules and things to do regarding your suspension. You can start by filling out the yellow form included in this letter. Once this is done, you are expected to hand it and your official license to the front desk. Agents Nein and Vodello will come and speak to you at 9:00 AM, then transport you to Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, where you will serve out your suspension. _

_Please note that the utmost amount of careful consideration was taken in determining your sentence, and we wish you no ill will for your actions. It is our sincerest hope that, by the time you return, we can put this instance behind us and continue to have many happy years together within the Psychonauts. '_

_Thank you for your time, and have a nice day!_

_Bruce Bayne, Chairman and CEO of the ALPD_

Raz read over the short letter three times, his eyes widening each time. It was only his first day, and he'd already gotten _suspended_? For _five weeks_? He felt like bawling. It just wasn't fair! Why did everyone seem to hate him so much? He made one mistake—just one! Was this place strict or what? Still, he had to do what he had to do. So, keeping his head low and sniffling slightly, he filled out the card.

It was elementary, really. It just asked what was his name, age, address, how long he was on suspension in days, and a few other, lame things. It did its job, though, in that it made him feel worse to write about who he was in such a robotic way. He wasn't Raz, the impish and smart acrobat psychic that served as a gangsta' role model to young psychics everywhere—yes, you _can_ follow your dreams! He was Razputin Aquato, age 10, suspended for 35 days. And it hurt.

Raz slumped back to the front desk as he finished the form, his eyes focused on the ground and back hunched like a caveman. He was the picture of neglect with the little orphan Annie cuteness to back it up, but he could care less about sucking in pity or starring in a Hollywood musical just then. He didn't even notice the people shoving and wrestling their ways past him, instead managing to collapse against the black granite, gripping the edge as if the crowd was a current threatening to drag him away. He glanced up at the receptionist, struggling not to break down and trying to find his license at the same time. She seemed to notice his struggles, though, as she smiled at him. He liked this one, though; it wasn't the same as the demeaning smiles he was normally fed here.

"Ya' need a hand, Bright-eyes?" Raz didn't answer. Instead he handed forward his license and card, still not making eye contact. She blinked, then picked up the yellow card and read it. The license—which looked almost exactly like a driver's license—was left where it was. Raz clamped his teeth tightly together, struggling not to let his lip quiver or his shoulders shake or anything. No; he was a _Psychonaut_. And Psychonauts _do not cry_!

"Aw, hon, I'm so sorry," she murmured, and that was it. She gave him back his slip and kept his license, and he took it wordlessly. The loud babble of the crowd dimmed down to a dull roar in Raz's ears as he stared at the words '5-week Suspension' written on the card, and heard the receptionist cry "Five minutes, people! Five minutes left, so grab yer crap and git out!". The hustle and bustle increased

No one noticed as a small boy on the verge of tears slipped out of the front door and into the parking lot, then took off running.

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_To Be Continued!_


	7. Sasha Has a Bad Trip

**((A.N. Seriously, what the hell, guys. WHAT THE HELL. Ever since that Japanese fanfic popped up (not blaming it; just giving a point of reference), every single fanfic after than has been just shy of ignored. I got *1* review after both fanfics I put up, and I'm not alone. Some totally BA fanfics ('Curses!', 'Shadows Are Supposed to Stay Sleeping', another example whose name escapes me...), though undoubtedly being read, have gotten maybe a maxium of 2 reviews since this sudden lull started. We're not doing this for money, guys. We're not being promised hookers and Kool Aid per chapter (if I was, I'd have a lot more up, trust me). All we get out of this is insomnia, lower school grades, and the satisfaction of having contributed to a small fandom and receiving approval for it. We're like bicycle tires with huge freaking holes in them. If you don't keep inflating our egos, we artsy types deflate and get emo and start writing those gramatically incorrect poems that frontpage DeviantART all the time. If we're not feeling that we're making someone's day better or feeling under pressure to continue writing or even being told what HAX0RZ we are then we start to lose interest in writing. It's a give-and-take fandom. We write; you review. THAT'S HOW IT WORKS. NO EXCEPTIONS. EVER. We need this like you need fanfiction.**

**So please, for the love of all that is Christmassy, REVIEW. Forget what you learned in Psych 101; It takes a lot to anger a Psycho, and right now I'm less than happy.))**

**In other news, I love this chapter. Dream sequences are the best things to write ever--no rules regarding reality, yay! Unfortunately, this is also a complete an unintentional ripoff of SASTSS, am I'm _so sorry_. I promise that'll stop after this. I didn't even realize how close the two were until after I finished writing this. D8**

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Raz passed through city blocks and 'sectors'—the latter marked with the exact same blue office building, placed neatly on the dividing line—with barely more than an instinct as to where he was going. He darted around pedestrians and past buildings, ignoring their cries of surprise as he shoved them out of his way. He didn't stop for a street performer rocking out on electric violin. He ignored a donation booth with a man in a Santa suit ringing a bell beside it, looking ready to pass out from heatstroke at any moment. He accidentally tripped up a blind man, and didn't even acknowledge this, let alone apologize.

Yes, some people stared, but Raz was too far gone to notice. He just kept running, sides aching, chest heaving, eyes burning, as if he could outrun his problems. Though the place he had come to was unfamiliar, something more distant than thought brought him to the breaking point of his strength and stamina and left him there, upon which he found himself collapsed upon a worn wood park bench, arms around his legs, head against his knees, and his heart-wrenched sobs staining his pants nearly black. He had taken himself to Pepperjack Park; a reasonably petite stretch of land dotted with multi-colored plastic playground equipment, dusty picnic tables, recycle bins, other benches, and an empty stage. It was here that he surrendered to the tumultuous feelings swirling inside of him, and here that, for once, he cried.

Time passed. Raz didn't know how much, but he estimated that it was somewhere around five minutes or so. It was enough time for him to start feeling slightly drowsy, but not enough for him to fall asleep anywhere, let alone on a park bench in a district he wasn't familiar with. Instead, it was just the right amount for him to decide that he had to leave. Sasha and Milla were probably—no, definitely—up by now, and wondering where he was, if only so they could escort him back to camp. Back to the other _children_, where he belonged. Just the thought was making him feel unnaturally angsty. And yet he had no sadness left in him; only worn submission. He didn't have it in him to fight them off. Not the press, convinced that he was too young and innocent to risk his life and determined to prove it. Not Sasha, who had lost his trust and would be sending him away. Not Chester what's-his-face or Jack, both of which seemed to know far more about what was going on that he did… but refused to tell. And especially not the version of himself he envisioned in his dreams. He was just a… just a stupid k—

"Hey-o!" Raz flinched at the noise, jerking his head toward it at the same time. It came from his left, close by, and Raz was only mildly surprised to see that it came from a person sitting on the same bench as he was. The person was a young boy, maybe four or five years old, with dusty blonde hair and shiny blue eyes. He was wearing a purple jacket and torn blue jeans, looking tough, yet kind. Raz smiled weakly down at him.

"Hey…" he muttered back. The kid's smile widened. He apparently wasn't used to people actually listening to him. As such, he seemed to automatically consider Raz his friend—not that Raz was complaining. He rather liked the company.

"You want to play with me?" he asked abruptly. Raz blinked.

"Didn't your parents talk to you about talking to strangers?" he countered. The kid just smiled.

"Nope! And my _baby_ sitter doesn't want to play with me." The kid drawled heavily at the word 'baby', making it sound like 'bay-beh', jerking a pudgy thumb towards a distant bench. Raz looked, only to see a teen girl in jean shorts and a tanktop sitting with her head back and arms stretched across the back of said bench, mouth agape and out cold. Raz frowned in disapproval, then smiled at the kid.

"Sure, why not? I'm Raz, by the way." The kid nodded, approving the name.

"My name's Keith. Come on! Let's play on the monkey bars!" He then ran off, laughing and smiling, to the plastic monstrosity that was supposed to be a playground. And Raz, in spite of everything, found himself smiling and laughing right back. Monkey bars were second-rate to an acrobat, and Whispering Rock could wait a while longer.

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**BACK AT THE AGENCY**

Sasha Nein had had a bad dream. This wasn't unusual in and of itself—due to a rather mentally-scarring job and a slight tendency towards precognitive visions, Sasha found that he often had quite a lot of nightmares.

This one was different, however.

It wasn't its levels of violence or stereotypically frightening images that had Nein worried; no, he had learned better than to let those things get to him. Rather, it was the distressing symbolism and vision-like feel of the dream that left him with a sheen of sweat across his face and a grip on his sheets that left fabric indents in his palms. It was the extraordinary realism of the images, despite their improbable nature, that made him decide to switch his schedule around and make his first order of business to find Dr. Gattaca and report the news to the psychic researcher.

For you see, Sasha Nein had dreamed of death.

In the dream, he recalled, he had been at Whispering Rock Summer Camp, even though the winds muttered of fall and children and councilors alike should have headed home, leaving the place empty. Indeed, it was eerily quiet that night as he traversed across the dirt path to the reception area. Somewhere along the way, he veered off the path, coming to a certain point laden with lake runoff, the broken remains of mine shafts, and some form of giant plant that resembled a tumbleweed the size of himself.

As he walked, the trees around him began to thicken, becoming more and more coated with silver gleams that he recognized as spider's silk. These also grew larger and larger, to the point where they were the size and texture of ropes and he could hear the disturbing mutters of spiders as big as large dogs fluttering about the forest when he came to the pool of runoff.

The water, he recalled, had been black and thick. It looked like oil until the moonlight hit it, on which point it flared crimson. There also, he saw with glee (_glee_?), were over a dozen bodies, drifting along the moonkissed water with their black faces skyward. The bodies consisted of campers and councilors alike—here was Ford Cruller, his weathered face frozen in anger, and here were Bobby and Benny, their expressions, for once, terrified, and here was Lili, with a plume of red hair against her shoulder that undoubtedly belonged to Razputin. Sasha watched them float about with—and this was one of the things that horrified him—indifference, even pleasure. There was no squeaky voice in his head reminding him that this was wrong, no nagging feeling in the back of his mind of regret or sorrow. He was satisfied. This was a job well done.

Smugly, Sasha trumped down to the water, stepping over the lacerated corpses of Oleander and Phoebe on his way to the center. That was where Raz and Lili lay, the former on his knees in the water and sobbing quietly, Lili's still form nestled in his arms and his head against her shoulder. He looked up fearfully as he heard Sasha's feet splashing across the water, his face pallid and overshadowed in the dim light.

"We're sorry, Agent Nein," he had begged, blood running in salty rivulets down his face as he apologized. "Whatever we did, we're sorry." Sasha didn't answer, at first. Instead, he put two fingers to his temple, sizing up the lone survivor as he did so.

"No. You're not sorry yet," Sasha growled, biting down the urge to grin as the child stared up at him in alarm. Something about cold-blooded murder just made him so… _happy_.

That was when the dream changed. Raz smirked, his eyes flashing bronze for just a moment.

"Ain't that a shame, then," he remarked icily, then fired a psiblast. Sasha, now thoroughly shocked, was flung back by the blunt force of the psychic weapon, hitting the muddy bank hard and scraping his back against the stones that lay within it. Orange haze danced in front of his eyes like a bad flashbulb as he lay there, dizzy and disoriented. Through it, though, he could just glimpse Raz getting to his feet, still smiling.

"And here lies the great Agent Nein, humbled and at the mercy of his own student," Raz announced, eyes glinting as he spread his arms wide. He lowered them, and, without their shadows to block it, his grin was wide and eerie. "How poetic." Sliding through the oily water, Raz's feet crunched forward, casually kicking aside any bodies that drifted in front of him. And still, hanging in the empty air and glowing far too brightly in the night, was that awful grin. It cut his little face in half, casting sickly shadows below his eyes and cheekbones with its brilliance.

Sasha grunted slightly, forcing himself up from the field of stones. His back ached something fierce, and he kept finding himself hypnotically drawn to that God damn _smile_, but he was far from defeat. The creature that had killed the other campers and tried to take control of him, then, failing that, had taken over Razputin, thought otherwise. If he worked, he could use this to his advantage… He stood up shakily, eyes set upon Razputin's pure orange ones.

"What have you done?" Sasha growled, pressing a firm hand against his forehead. "What are you?" One of a thousand questions, and Raz giggled viciously at it. He was milking the immaturity act as far as it would go.

"Aw, don't be so grumpy, Agent Nein. He said he'd help me. He said he'd… improve me." Raz was now two feet from Sasha, peering up analytically at him, but paused for conversation's sake and made no move to attack. Sasha looked back, simultaneously repulsed and oddly fascinated. Something about those bright eyes and sharpened teeth seemed to stir up some dark emotion between attraction and obsessive need. He forced it down, and it was like swallowing bile.

"Who's 'he'?" Then it clicked, and his gripped look became one of fury. "That _bastard_!" Of course. It all made sense now. Jack had created that explosive to deaden their consciouses and increase their sheer cruelty potential, turning them into this creepy child grinning at him here. That cell had been for them all along, not for Truman, leaving them to snarl and rave in it before he found the right place to sic them… But something had gone wrong, hadn't it? For some reason, Jack had been prompted to lock himself in there, and the concoction had a delayed reaction, giving Nein's subconscious time to piece it together and warn him via a dream, and… and Raz was talking again.

"He can improve you, too, Agent Nein. He can improve _everyone_. All you have to do is let go." A gloved hand reached up and pressed against Sasha's chest in a move that would have, in any other context, been sincere and touching. Sasha shivered, nauseous from both the icy, soft, ghostly feeling of Raz's hand and the horrible parody of a supportive smile he wore. This wasn't his protégé; this was some sort of inhuman _thing_, wearing his skin as a poor disguise in an attempt to convince Sasha to turn coat.

With a mighty shove, Raz fell to the ground, eyes wide with surprise. Towering above him, face dark with hate, Sasha glared and slowly put his hand down.

"Don't touch me, you sick imitation," he warned. Raz just blinked, bewildered, then scowled spitefully and forced his way to his feet. Though he was only to Sasha's waist, he still somehow managed to seem menacing as his expression morphed into one of rage.

"You don't deserve to be improved, anyway," he spat, eyes and hands beginning to glow a bright orange. "You don't deserve _anything_! Mister Bedlar said I was the best Carrier he's ever had, and he said nothing would make him happier than if I got to turn you into one, too. But you're so horrible that he'd just kill you, so let me make him _super _happy by sparing him the effort!" In the time it took Sasha to blink, he had been knocked against the giant tumbleweed with a snarling Razputin clinging to his shoulders, splashing water everywhere in the process. Electricity shot from Raz's clawed hands and into Sasha, sending him yelling in pain. Flinching, he forced his electrified, jerking hands onto Raz's wrists, then flung the young possessee to the ground. Raz bounced slightly, then jerked back to his feet, grabbing Vernon's ankles as he did. Sasha's eyes widened.

"You're not seriously planning to—" he never got to finish, as, yes, Raz whacked him solidly in the face with Vernon, like some form of morbid baseball bat. Sasha's neck and spine twisted awkwardly, and he spiraled into a set of tumbleweed branches, spitting up blood that wasn't his and was likely rampant with AIDS. He stood again, shaking his head to clear it of dizziness. This… wasn't working. He looked over at Raz, who was currently tenderly returning Vernon to the water like some sort of Japanese paper boat. Sasha watched him, his eyes glowing fainter and mouth formed into an almost caring smile, and quirked a brow.

"He's insane," he concluded, "absolutely, clinically _insane_." That did it. The concept of this creepy entity set loose in the real world, controlling Raz like he was a marionette and drawing the kids of Whispering Rock to it with promises of power and strength, netting in even Ford, Oleander, _Milla_… Sasha thrust forward, swinging a psychic claw forward and shoving the possessed Raz into the shallow water. His eyes were alight with rage, and he couldn't deny that a strong part of him felt a surge of satisfaction as Raz yowled and shattered Sasha's psychic hand with his own, desperately forged one. He scrambled to get up, his natural aversion to water overcoming his grown evil tendencies. He never got the chance.

Eyes flaring a sudden pastel blue, Sasha stood over Raz, who was currently on his knees in the water, gasping and coughing as if he'd been in it for minutes on end. Suddenly, with a quick certainty that would have shocked both of them if they had been sane, Sasha felt his hands slam against Raz's head and shove it back under. Bubbles raced to the surface, carrying the muted remnants of a surprised and terrified scream. Raz's head thrashed and his hands clawed urgently at the air, but Sasha held firm, eyes blue and mouth set in a firm scowl. Adrenaline raced through his veins, providing him with a dark happiness as he watched Raz struggle in vain to breathe.

Just as Raz had been under for about twenty seconds and had resulted to pounding the ground with his fists instead of trying to pry Sasha's off, he saw his hands grab the young boy's collar and yank him up. Raz gasped loudly, breath whooping and quick. His expression, this time, held no hints of sadistic joy or cruel victory; he was just scared. Satisfied, Sasha forced him back under a second time, this time far enough so that his head smashed against the rocky ground and a bit of blood clouded up with the bubbles. Sasha smiled, already imagining pushing Raz's unmoving body against Lili's, then going off to find Jack and demand a cure for himself, at gunpoint if needed… But, then again, did he really want to lose this? This kind of power had…_ possibilities_.

_Hmm, how ironic, _Sasha thought. _It looks like the family really is cursed to die in water, after all._ The thought made his eyes gleam brighter. He tightened his grip on Raz's helmeted skull, then watched with satisfaction as the boy's arms flailed and a few more bubbles were squeezed from his throat. However, his actions were sluggish and tired, signifying his quickly losing consciousness. It couldn't be long now before he gave up entirely.

_Excellent, Sasha,_ a voice growled approvingly inside his head. _Kill the boy. We don't need him any longer. _Raz clamped one hand desperately over his mouth, straining to, if not breathe, then at least keep his own air in a bit longer. The other he stretched out, reaching for the thistle branches just out of arm's length. Sasha looked down at him, at his own knuckles flaring white against his helmet and fingers clawed, pinning down the boy's thrashing head, and his eyes widened in horror.

"No," he realized, shaking his head slowly. "No, I'm not like this." He released Raz with frozen fingers, then grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him up, heart racing. Raz, meanwhile, shot up like a rocket, gasping, sobbing, shivering, and coughing as he fell against Sasha. A tense silence passed as Raz wailed hysterically and Sasha mindlessly consoled him, rubbing his back and muttering nonsense sayings such as "it's alright" and "I'm sorry".

_You're not as free of me as you think you are, Nein. I'm right here with you, waiting for you to slip up._

_You just tried to kill my student and one of your own. I'm not going to give in to you._

_But was that me? If you'll recall, you enjoyed it quite a bit._

_All I 'enjoyed' was making you and you alone suffer. Razputin's simply the vessel you chose to inhabit. _

_And I suppose you felt terrible at the thought of him drowning with me._

_I… _Sasha frowned, pressing one hand against the back of Raz's head, which was nestled on his shoulder. The fabric of his helmet was still damp and cold, and Sasha remembered the frantic joy he'd felt while drowning him. He hadn't even been thinking about the spirit. _…What's wrong with me?_

_SUT._

Sasha gasped wetly, blood dripping from his mouth and eyes wide behind his shades. His hands twitched against Raz, and he dared to look down, not wanting to believe it. Raz's hand was drawn into a fist against his chest, enveloped the image of a large, orange cone. This had pierced through Nein's stomach, providing a neat little hole you could see through. Blood spilled out of it and across the cone, hitting the water like raindrops. For a moment Sasha could only stare in shock, then he heard Raz whisper gleefully into his ear.

"You see how good a Carrier I am?" He moved his hand, and Sasha fell listlessly forward, body numb. From his position on his stomach in the water, Sasha just managed to crane his neck back enough to see Raz call back his psychic weapon and smile degradingly down at him. Oh, how he hated that boy.

"It has to be one of us, Agent Nein," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "You had your chance. Now it's my turn to make a difference." He paused, snickering, then pulled out his weapon again. Sasha gasped.

"No—" he began, as Raz smirked and lifted it up, then thrust it down. There was nothing Sasha could do.

_SUT_.

And that was the end of the dream.


End file.
